


and together they were birds of a feather

by jefferoni (CrowleysGlasses)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Being Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton Being an Asshole, And Birds, Anger, Autistic Thomas Jefferson, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Depression, Disabled Character, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, House based off Benvie farm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Look it Up, M/M, Patsy being cool as fuck, Philip is cute ngl, Prosthetic Leg ooo, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole, Thomas Jefferson is sad, and a lot of animals actually, farm, make jefferson suffer 2020, me using my headcannons for Jefferson because fuck you, monticello fic with a twist, or at least the kids are, pansexual Thomas Jefferson, the Jefferson’s are cool as fuck, there are cats, using my headcannons like I said and these are them so here take em
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25732189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowleysGlasses/pseuds/jefferoni
Summary: When Eliza, Maria and Philip drag Alexander to Virginia for a getaway, he doesn’t expect to have to deal with Thomas fucking Jefferson for two weeks.But the man has secrets within, and stories to tell. The gain and breaking of trust as two political enemies come to realise the other... isn’t so bad. Snooping for secrets and finding dark pasts. How can Alexander get forgiveness from Thomas?That barn looked so high, and yet there they both ended up, together. Birds of a feather.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler (past), Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson, Maria Reynolds/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Thomas Jefferson/Martha Waynes Jefferson (past)
Comments: 99
Kudos: 168





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [14_shillings_and_6_pence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/14_shillings_and_6_pence/gifts), [just_spilled_ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_spilled_ink/gifts).



> Welcome welcome all to my newest fanfic woOoO
> 
> Dedicated to two awesome people! 14_shillings is a cutie and I love him and just_spilled_ink is hilarious and I love her, so consider this a gift for you both!
> 
> and together they were birds of a feather is a Jamilton fic I've had up my ass for months now, so here it is.  
> First of all, I feel as though I should list the most important headcannons now:
> 
> Alexander Hamilton:  
> Bisexual  
> Divorced but shares custody with Eliza and Maria who started dating the Reynolds Pamphlet  
> 32 years old  
> Mild PTSD and minor depressive episodes (occasionally)
> 
> Thomas Jefferson:  
> Let the man have three cats and a bird  
> Depression, social anxiety :(  
> Mildly autistic  
> Prosthetic leg but that’s explained in the fic  
> Two kids  
> Widower
> 
> Anyway, TW’s for mentions of suicide, death, anxiety and general angst because oh BOY is this an angsty fic.  
> Also, the home looks like this [Benvie Farm](https://images.app.goo.gl/347smeDbBFAfWVSe9)  
> It’s super nice there, would 100% recommend

If there was one place Alexander knew for a fact he had no desire to be, it was Virginia. 

For the amount of time he had been subjected to Madison and Jefferson conversing about the " _Southern dirt_ " and the " _open air_ ," he believed with all of his small being that Virginia was the second worst state in the US, after Texas. (He had no reason for hating Texas, other than the stories he had heard, and the stereotypes to go along with it.)

Alexander wholeheartedly thought Virginia came a very close second. A contender for Worst State award. Based on the, frankly irrefutable, evidence that both Jefferson and Madison were the two biggest dicks he knew, and that they were both - coincidentally - Virginians. Thus, he had a solid basis for his hatred of the state. Everyone knew it, the festering displeasure at even the mention of such a hell. Jefferson's accent never failed to send shivers of disgust down his spine, sparking anger in his veins. His voice was such a slow, lazy drawl that left everyone clinging onto each syllable for dear life. Whereas Hamilton vomited words at a mile a minute, trying to get everything out at once before he lost the attention of the room or ran out of his precious time. Jefferson always spoke like he had no place better to be, although the man always left work at the exact same time on weekdays and not a minute later. So perhaps he did have somewhere better to be. 

_Nonsense,_ Alexander would scoff, _where could be better than work?_

With the knowledge of his despise aimed towards the state common knowledge, no one dared even mention it around him less they desire a less than pleasant explanation (a loud one at that) on why the fields, the rolling hills and the heat were in fact _the worst._

So when Eliza had suggested - no, demanded - he take a trip with her, Maria (her girlfriend, and Alexander's ex-mistress how _embarrassing_ ) and his son Philip to the dreaded sweat-stain of a state, he had actually laughed. Chuckled right in her face after she spoke. Until he noticed her pursed lips, eyes squinting and darkening with a displeased glare to which he had squeaked out, "oh my lord, you're serious? No, no way."

And yet somehow, despite all his disagreements and the long hours spent ranting to John about how _horrible the south was_ and _how much he would miss New York._ He found himself shoving his clothes into a duffel bag, preparing himself for a two week trip to a farm of all places.

_A farm?_ Really?

Out of all the places to go, Eliza and Maria had chosen a farm to drag him to. A dirty, smelly - no doubt rat and insect infected, not a strange sight for New York but not something he exactly welcomed with open arms - farm. Honest to god, the things he would do to make his son happy. Apparently, Eliza had told Philip that Alexander would be there, before she even asked Alex, which didn't seem fair in his opinion. But after seeing the nine year old's eyes light up like a Christmas tree, he knew it would be impossible to turn him down.

So here he was, stuffing everything he was going to need into a bag, concealing his laptop inside a sweatshirt at the bottom of the luggage. Eliza had formally insisted that this was a _no work_ trip. As if that was going to stop him. He's a storm, unable to be paused. But when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object- well, he didn't know what would happen, he was yet to encounter an obstacle he couldn't flip over.

His phone buzzes insistently until he picks it off his dining table (which was really just a wooden table he had picked up in a clearance sale, placed haphazardly in the corner of his home where the kitchen met the living room. It had chips in the wood, and a frighteningly deep crack straight down one of the legs.) Texts from Eliza, accompanied with bad grammar and spelling. It was either Eliza, or Philip on his mother's phone. He opens the messages with a hesitant hand, as though some encrypted quest is within.

_To Alex, 8:57 am:_ hiya dad!!!!!!!

Ah, it was most definitely Philip. Good. Alexander continued to read, satisfied in knowing Eliza wasn't about to chastise him on something. She was sweet, like a maternal figure. Which was probably - no, definitely - strange considering the two had been married in the past. Nonetheless, their relationship was a confusing one, alas it worked for them.

_To Alex, 8:57 am_ : mom let me on hr phone!!

_To Alex, 8:58 am:_ imso happy ur coming to virgina wit us!!!!!

_To Alex, 8:58 am:_ i was scared u wouldnt com!

He frowns, shaking his head as his fingers tap out a reply. Philip didn't think he would come? Was he that terrible of a father, or did Philip misjudge his work ethic? Alexander certainly wouldn't have been surprised if Philip was still recovering from _The Reynolds Pamphlet._ God knows he was. What a terrible mistake he had made. Well… at least Maria and Eliza were joyful together. And Alexander had… he had his work. His essays. His words. He had his voice to call above all else. Yes. That was all he needed.

_From Alex, 8:59 am:_ Hello, Pip! I'm looking forward to going on a trip with you too. We can have some man-to-man time, can't we? Do you know if your mom is almost here? 

Not even a minute later, he had a response from Philip. 

_To Alex, 8:59 am:_!! oustkide!!!

He understood well enough and smiled, finding himself forgetting where he was headed for just a moment and focusing solely on his love for his son. Alexander lugged the bag over his shoulder and cast a look back at his apartment, bidding adieu to his (broken) coffee machine and (dusty) couch. With a final nod, a surety that he had packed everything immaculately as always, he grabbed his house keys and stepped past the threshold, into the lobby of the apartment building. Alex was lucky in the way that he had a ground floor flat. He locks the door as he leaves, keychains jingling much like a bell in the draft from the ajar front door. 

Bag bouncing uncomfortably off his back with every step, Alexander made his way out onto the street, where he spotted Eliza' signature silver Porsche. (He often forgot she came from a place of money. She was never one to flaunt it in extravagant ways. Although she did live comfortably.)

Alexander waves through the window to Philip as he opens the door, sliding into the back seat and dropping his bag at his feet. "Morning, ladies! Morning, Pip!" 

Philip smiles meekly in return, going back to playing _Temple Run_ on his mother's phone with a look of total determination. 

"Good morning, Alexander! All packed?" Eliza glares at him through the back view mirror, adjusting it carefully with her slender fingers.

"You better believe I am," he shoots her finger guns in return as he buckles his seatbelt, taking his mind off his laptop at his feet.

Maria glances around her seat to look at him, eyes narrowed with suspicion and disbelief. "No laptop?" She asks warily.

He shakes his head no. A lie. He prays no one can tell. Maria seems satisfied with the answer and spins back around, hitting the radio like an old fashioned jukebox until airy, generic pop music is flowing through the speakers.

It takes them almost eight hours to arrive in Charlottesville, Virginia. It's a six hour drive, accompanied by pit stops to use gas station restrooms, and pick up bad coffee as per Alexander's request.

And then there they were. Philip and Maria were both long since asleep, leaning on the windows and snoring ever so softly. His coffee cup lies, empty and depleted, in the middle seat, where it rolls as the car moves. The country lane twists rather suddenly through an opening in the brick wall they've been driving alongside, soon enough they're trundling over cobblestones, the cars wheels bouncing being enough to wake Maria and Philip. The nine year old makes a strangled sound of discomfort, sitting up and craning his neck. He peers over his mother' shoulder, squeaking with glee as he sees the lavish looking farmhouse they're approaching. 

Even Alexander can admit, it is very beautiful. The path they follow towards the driveway is lined with poplar trees, the ones he had overheard Jefferson speaking so kindly of. Layers of brown leaves lie across the grass closest to the road, immaculately raked there to look as tidy as possible. Most certainly _not_ the dirty farm he had imagined. There's always time though.

Eliza parks the car with a joyful burst of, "everybody out! We made it in one piece!" 

Alexander scrambles to escape the car, toppling out with a yelp as he narrowly avoids falling flat on his face. He checks his shoes, which aren't untied or loose, how strange. He must just be- 

"Clutz," Maria teases, hitting him gently on the back of the head with her hand. It doesn't hurt, but Alexander raises his palm to rub at the spot anyway, scowling.

He would shoot back a rebuttal, most likely with some choice words, but looking over the other side of the car he spots Philip, and knows he can't. 

"So," Alexander exhales, looking up at the large townhouse in front of them, "this is where we're staying?" He sucks his cheeks in with a thought. The home is painted white, probably three levels unless the ceilings were high.

"Yup!" Eliza answers happily, pulling suitcases out of the boot of the car. She drags them over to the front door, knocks a few times and listens to the echo through the home. Nobody answers, and she looks back over her shoulder worriedly. "She said she would open the door when we got here…" she mumbles, moving back. 

Philip has already started running across to a monkey-bar and swing set under a large tree, sprinting towards the swing. Alexander hurries after him, "Pip, I'll push you while mom meets the host." He grins, distracting his son from Eliza's panic of not being able to get in.

Alexander gets over to the tree and watches as Philip jumps onto the swing. He's about to move over to him when leaves rustle above his head and suddenly someone drops in front of him with a loud laugh. 

"Ha! Gotcha this time-!" The girl pauses, looking at Alexander. She's around the same height as him, if not an inch smaller. Her hair makes her look much taller, sticking all over the place in wild curls. They remind Alexander of Jefferson, someone he really doesn't want to think about. This is supposed to be work free, and even though he plans on getting work done, he doesn't want to imagine Jefferson while he's here. "You're not my Pops," the girl adds, plucking a twig from her hair and flicking it to the grass with a grimace.

"No, no, I'm not." Alexander breathes out, clutching at his chest where his heart races against his ribcage. It thuds where his hand is, and an embarrassed flush rushes over him at being so frightened by a child spooking him.

The girl knits her eyebrows together, running a hand through her curls, somehow looking poised and perfect despite clambering up a tree. "Oh, well I'm so sorry, mister for frightening you." Her voice is a soft drawl, Southern in tone. She sticks her hand out carefully, asking for a gentle handshake. "My name's Patsy."

"Alexander," he replies, taking her hand quickly to shake. She retracts after a second, stuffing one of them in the pocket of her denim dungarees. 

Patsy gestures lazily over at Maria and Eliza, both pacing around. "Do you want me to get my grandmama? She should be able to let y'all in," she offers, kicking her feet back and forth.

"Ah, yes," Alexander smiles, grateful for the assistance. "That would be great thanks." 

Patsy nods and as she heads off, she pauses by Philip and waves. Alexander watches as she rushes off to a part of the home that juts out, mostly windows and when he glances in he realises it's a kitchen and dining room, open plan. She throws the glass door open, waving to the short woman in there who jumps, claps her hands twice and moves as fast as she can outside. 

"I'm sorry! The front door is locked!" The lady calls, and Alexander once more takes time to study her. She's old, and that much is obvious. Slightly hunched and short, greying hair pulled back into a fluffy bun. 

Eliza clearly hears, breathing out with relief to the point that her head falls back with a long sigh. "Hello! Ms-" 

"Jane is fine," the lady cuts in, taking one of the suitcases despite Maria's insistence that she can take it. "Nonsense, come on in," Jane looks the two up and down, "where are the boys?"

"Alexander and Philip are over there," Maria flicks her wrist towards the tree Alexander stands under, and he returns the gaze with a wave.

Philip trails after him as he trudges over to Jane, disappointed that he never got to go on the swing. "Hello, I'm Alexander Hamilton, pleasure to meet you," he greets, shaking the hosts hand. 

_So polite,_ Jane mouths over to Eliza who snorts with a soft laugh. "Jane Jefferson, I've heard all about you."

He nods, not really thinking about the last name he was given. Plenty of people had the surname Jefferson, right? She had heard all about him? Most likely from Eliza setting up the vacation. Of course.

Alexander smiles brightly, putting himself up to be completely sound and not at all mentally unstable. "I hope you've only heard good things," he purrs, adding on a wink to sweeten the deal. It clearly works as Jane giggles to herself and rolls her eyes.

"What a gentleman," she smacks her lips together. "I must inform you that my eldest son and his two daughters are staying here too, I hope that's no trouble." She adds absent-mindedly as she leads them around the side of the home and into the kitchen through the glass door there. 

"I believe you told me over the phone," Eliza replies, already getting along like a house on fire with the elderly woman. "How old were they again?"

"Well Martha, who Alexander has encountered already is fourteen," Jane answers, holding the door open for Philip who thanks her and rushes in. Alexander furrows his brows, the girl had introduced herself as Patsy. Must be a nickname. "And Mary is nine, same age as your son, correct?" She speaks rather proper, and Alexander can already imagine her as a woman who dresses in her Sunday best for Church. She seems like the type.

"Yep!" Philip answers, dropping his spongebob backpack that's been on his back all along on the floor, swinging his arms back and forth. "There's kids here? Cool!" He looks around, "do you have sheep?" He changes the subject rather quickly.

"Yes, yes, we have sheep. Cows, pigs and horses too." Jane says, proud and almost smug in herself. She smiles.

Alexander settles his duffel bag on the floor, which is nudged aside by Maria's foot so it's not in the middle of the walkway. She glares at him, a death look that sends shudders down his spine. "Horses!?" Philip bursts with happiness, eyes widening and sparkling like lights on a Christmas tree. It warms Alexander from the inside out, a little fire lit in his stomach at the pure, childlike joy radiating in puzzling waves off of his son.

"Indeed! I should be able to get Tom to show you how to ride if you'd like," Jane drops a name, and it rings little bells in Alex's mind. Tom? Tom Jefferson? It couldn't be. After all, Thomas is a popular name. It's fine.

"Please!" He beams, bouncing on the souls of his feet, excited.

"I'll see if I can find him, last I checked he was in the parlour with Mary," Jane's feet drag as she opens the kitchen door, heavy and wooden that shows the carpeted spiral staircase leading upstairs. Alexander had been correct that the ceilings are very high. It's nice though. Jane shuffles from the room, presumably to search for this 'Tom' (whom Alexander had assumed is her son.)

"See, isn't this wonderful, Alex?" Eliza smiles, gesturing with wide arms and doing a twirl. Her long skirt flies with her, pale and blue in colour, a good combination with her white blouse.

"It's rather nice, yes." He responds with a little grin. Maybe this won't be so bad. 

"C'mon, Tom. We have guests, you must greet them!" Jane' voice starts soft, getting louder and clearer the closer she advances back to the kitchen where the rest still are. 

"Yes, ma, I'm aware," a kind one returns, and Alexander is _sure_ he recognises that accent. That slow drawl that's accentuated by the fact that he resides in the south currently. The way that syllables drip off his tongue like venom, yet somehow Alexander is hanging onto every word as though it were the edge of a cliff he's so close to plummeting off.

His hair comes into view before his face does and Alexander's most nightmarish fears are confirmed.

"Jefferson?!" He practically yells across the room.

Said man pauses, looks down at his significantly shorter mother then back along at Alexander. He brings a hand to his face, rubs it across his cheek and exhales. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters under his breath, which earns him a slap on the side from Jane- Mrs Jefferson. "Hamilton, what in all that is holy are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? What are _you_ doing here! I'm on vacation!" Alexander points angrily to the other people around him, who seem to be ignoring the situation willingly. 

A wave of distress washes over him. He is supposed to be staying here for two weeks. Two whole weeks in the same space as Jefferson? It's as though a letter of disapproval has been given to him straight from god, a punishment for his many sins. It isn't fair! Why should he be chastened for crimes he has never committed?

"If you haven't noticed, with your feeble mind, Hamilton, I am too." Jefferson replies cooly, turning to Jane. "Ma, I know you were… offering the home as a summer spot. But did you seriously have to-"

"Thomas Jefferson, watch your tone," she snaps, interrupting him mid sentence. It definitely works, as the authority ringing in her harsh words cut through him like ice. "Miss Schuyler came to me requesting rooms and services, and I am here to provide them. You shall treat our guests with the same respect you treat everyone else. You may be grown but I am still your mother and I shall not hesitate to wash your mouth out with soap!" She turns on her heel, satisfied with the chastise of Jefferson and clears her throat. Her voice changes back to the same sweet, honey coated one she provided them with previously.

"My apologies, I assure you I am happy to have you here. Allow me to show you to your rooms?" She takes a suitcase from Maria, and stares pointedly at Jefferson to do the same. He obliges without another thought, although he turns and heads upstairs without considering Alexander a moment longer. He cannot tell if that is good or bad.

All Alexander knows is that these two weeks, are going to be his own personal hell. May Satan forgive him for his crimes. May God accept his amend.

May he survive the rest of this trip.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane forces Thomas to show Alexander and Philip around.

Patsy and Polly were Thomas' pride and joy. His two daughters served as shining beacons of light, anchors that kept him on earth. Without them, he didn't know what he would do. Everything he did, he did for them. 

Every weekday he left work in time to collect Mary from school, more often than not resulting in her questioning what was for dinner, or having a multitude of queries about his job.

When it came down to it, Martha - whom he referred to as Patsy at almost all times, her birth name struck him deep to the core with pain and he could no longer bring himself to so much as utter it - was the more curious about his job. She had been (willingly) subjected to the spew of her father's political rants rather often, however she was always a big fan of politics. She enjoyed debate and arguments, taking it upon herself to spark a conversation centred around belief with Thomas as much as she could get away with. 

In short, his family was the most important thing to him. His light at the end of the tunnel.

So when he found out that his peaceful, two week retreat to his childhood home, a prime way for him to proudly boast his memories to his children, would be crashed by none other than the man he was trying to escape? Well, he was far from happy. 

Jefferson reluctantly assists in depositing luggage into rooms, although he deliberately went out of his way to completely ignore Hamilton's bag. Fuck him, he's perfectly capable of doing it himself. If the man can claim to carry the entire government on his back, then surely his spine isn't weak enough to drag his duffel bag up a flight of stairs.

He drops the suitcase in the upstairs room for Maria and Eliza, gestures around before he speaks. "I feel as though I should clarify," they both turn from glancing at the pink toned walls, "I have no issue with the two of you and your son being here, - the more the merrier - I only disparish Hamilton." Thomas explains.

Maria nods, although it's apparent by the small, nervous swallow that follows that she is unsure of what to say. Eliza, seemingly as dumbstruck, simply adds, "well, it's a pleasure to be here." She runs her hand carefully along the bed post. It's the type of bed with curtains, sheen, silky pink ones that hand over the mahogany bed. The wood itself has intricate carvings cut into it, patterns and swirls that at first seem unrelated, until closer inspected. It tells a story. Each dent in the wood, every marking has its own tale.

"It's a lovely bedroom," Maria pipes up, inspecting an empty perfume bottle laid crooked on the old desk. She picks it up and presses the nozzle a few times, all that escapes is a few measly droplets of fragrance. 

Thomas smiles slightly, always overzealous to speak the wonders of his childhood home. "It was my eldest sister's, Elizabeth, she's only a year older than me," he comments wistfully.

"You have an older sister? I would've assumed you were the eldest," Eliza hums, as though taken aback by the new information.

He nods and wipes his finger across the top of a chest of drawers, grimacing as it comes back slightly dusty. "Oh yes, Lizzie is the eldest of us. Then there's me, Randolph, Jane, Mary, Martha, Peter, Lucy and…" he trails off, looking down as though he's said too much.

"Woah, big family," Maria tacks on. She refuses to allow the room to fall into awkward silence, no, not on her watch.

"Mhm, that way you're never alone," Thomas sounds almost spiteful, as though a villain making their monologue, or a child letting loose their long stewing resentment. A bubbling pot of disdain had been brewing away in his stomach for years, and the day was approaching when it would overflow, perhaps the cauldron holding his emotions would flatter and fall, spilling its context over the floor. Perhaps it's festering like an acid, slowly burning it's way through him before unleashing its terror upon those around him.

Eliza clears her throat a few times and looks down. She prays softly, something she hasn't done for years - probably since high school - that this trip will go smoothly. 

She had known, of course, who Jane was from the beginning. In fact, she had believed that Alexander would've figured it out after she declared their trip to Virginia official, and told him the city they were to stay in. And yet, she clearly overestimated his intelligence, as the man was none the wiser. God forbid she have to testify in court after this holiday is over, as it seemed that after being around each other no more than two minutes, Hamilton was all too prepared to murder his coworker in cold blood. Eliza didn't want to stand in a courtroom as a witness, therefore she would have to guarantee this vacation went smoothly.

"Angelica has been asking for you," Eliza reveals, listening to the soft zipp of Maria opening their suitcase.

"Oh really? I shall have to get in touch with her someday-" Thomas starts, voice still low with resentment from his previous statement. Alas, his sentiment is cut off (rather rudely) by the booming yell of a mother shouting up the stairs.

"Thomas Jefferson! Get your ass downstairs and give our guests a tour!" Jane sounds angry, perhaps from her son taking his sweet time conversing with Eliza and Maria.

Thomas sighs and rubs a hand over his face, clearly disgruntled. "Right," his tone changes to appear more bright, and yet his facial expression couldn't be further from happy. "Duty calls!" He looks between Eliza and Maria, who finally pipes up.

"We prefer looking around on our own, so you can just show-" Maria slows in her speech, realising where she's heading with the statement.

"Hamilton around."Thomas drawls, phrasing it like it should be a question, and yet his voice is so incredibly flat. Disappointment? Perhaps. 

"If you don't mind taking Pip along too?" Eliza adds, Alexander did always know how to hold his tongue around his son.

Thomas shoots her finger guns, something Alexander had done earlier. The idea of them both using the same motion makes her scoff, imagining who would stop doing them if she were to inform them of the thing they had in common. "I'll drag Polly over too, maybe Patsy'll tag along." He hums, the fact that he's mumbling more to himself than anyone else becoming rather apparent. 

"Thomas _!"_ The screech of a harpy comes up the stairs again, and Thomas huffs out a sigh.

"Comin', ma!" He calls, heading out the door. He slinks down the stairs to see a cat circling a confused looking Alexander. "Cornbread, leave Hamilton alone," he clicks his tongue and the tabby cat trots over to him, sits on his feet and stares with wide, yellowed eyes at Hamilton.

"Cornbread..?" He hears the other mutter, as Thomas urges his cat off of his foot. Alexander glances down at the tabby cat with narrowed eyes, watches it slink once, twice around Jefferson's legs, tail winding tantalisingly around his ankles before sauntering off. That cat even reeks of Jefferson, tail swishing in the same self-righteous way the man's coat tails do at work, chin held high with arrogance. 

Thomas chooses not to indulge Hamilton in his naming choices for his cat, as be figures it to be none of the others business. 

"Thomas!" The shrill shriek of his mothers voice draws near as the woman rounds the corner. She's poised like a snake ready to strike, fangs on show and dripping with venom. She spots Alexander, who is staring at her precariously. Jane seems… deceptive, Alexander decides in his mind. As though she's hiding a glorious secret, a dragon hoarding gold in her cave. That idea is only confirmed when her tone drastically alters at the view of a guest. "Are you giving a tour or not?" Despite her best efforts to sound loving towards her eldest son, her teeth still grind together, and her voice hisses, drawling in a way that disturbs the ears.

"Yes, ma. That's actually what I was about to do," Thomas answers as nicely as he can, all the while his darling mother's eyes burn holes into his head. 

"Watch your tone-" Jane presses her hand to Thomas' chest and pushes him gently, brushing past him. "And get those children too. They can run with you." She leaves, heeled shoes clicking off the wooden floors. The tap, tap, tapping resembles that of a ticking clock, a reminder of the passage of time. 

Alexander watches, jaw agape as Jane walks away. How? For what reason should Jefferson be ' _watching his tone_ '? Alex may hate the guy, but even he can admire the man's politeness to all he speaks to. Even when basically insulting Hamilton, Jefferson keeps his tone light and kind, somehow making Alex feel simultaneously insulted to his core, and as though he should be agreeing with Jefferson.

Within a few seconds, the sound of Jane shouting on her _grandchildren_ sounds clearly through the home. Her southern accent, once so gentle and kind twisted into a cruel sneer that pierces the ears the same way it does the heart. Patsy drags herself into the hallway to meet her father, Polly hot on her heels. Behind her, not long after comes scurrying Philip, muttering about not wanting to be alone with _"scary Mrs Jefferson!"_

Thomas sighs and his chest heaves. "Alright, let's… get a move on then! Keep up, Hamilton!" He strides off, Patsy by his side. Mary (Polly) hangs back with Philip, nattering away to the boy of the same age. And then at the back, hands stuffed in his pockets, walks Alexander. Languid and huffing with boredom every time he breathes out. He refuses to give the other the satisfaction of seeing him infatuated with the home and farm. Because he is. Infatuated, that is.

The five of them, one teenager, two children and two adults pace their way through the kitchen, and out onto the green lawn. Around them, behind the swing set Philip was previously so desperate to play on is a crumbling brick wall. It's low enough to climb - or jump if one is skilled enough - and over it is a long stretch of field. It curves around the back of the farmhouse, where a barn can be seen. Loitering in and about that red painted barn is a group of cattle, around 10 or 11 cows that can be clearly heard. Alexander can't even begin to imagine how many acres of land this is, and to think that Jefferson grew up here? Remarkable. He always thought of the man as the type to despise anything but pressed, pristine perfection. And yet, when Alex looks him up and down, he realises that this is the first time he's seen Jefferson in anything but a suit. It's strange to say the least. A not-so-welcome change.

Thomas seems more approachable when he isn't clad in that _blinding_ shade of magenta. Or -arguably worst- the dull brown he occasionally bares. Alex has figured out, based on Jefferson's clothing choices on a particular day, how he is feeling can be derived. For example, the brighter the colour, the happier (and therefore more smug) the man shall be. However, fainter, more muted tones (like the dreaded brown suit) more commonly mean the Secretary shall not be seen to leave his office. Not a soul is allowed inside on these days, with an exception to Madison. Everytime, James brings him a baggy filled with some comfort items. Or at least that's what Alexander can guess.

But without the suits? Alexander has no way of knowing how Jefferson is feeling. When the man clads himself in denim jeans (and holy _fuck_ his _legs_ ) with a mustard and black flannel button up that fucking hell shows off his arms, how can Alex see what Jefferson is thinking? God forbid he has to treat Jefferson like a _person_ and not the ruthless machine who exists only to get in his way that he has built him up to be in his mind. The end of the world would arrive quicker than the day Alexander feels as though he must treat Jefferson with the same respect he shows all else.

"Alright-" Thomas breaks the silence that has begun to swaddle them, much like a blanket. A blanket in the heat, when the fluff sticks to your skin, damp with sweat. Uncomfortable, coddled and desperate for escape. "-I suppose we should start off around the house."

He glances over at Alexander who simply scoffs and turns his head away in response. He sighs, eyes pricking at the corners. He can feel a headache coming on, and that accompanied with the knowledge that he would be forced to spend time with this insolent man made him feel as though he could crack at a moments notice. As much as he refuses to admit it, Thomas is an emotional man. He simply can’t seem to help it. Alexander has always made him feel things, emotions he really doesn’t want to endure any longer. Like the anger - god the anger - which the childish man forces upon him. When his face scrunches up into a red ball of rage, fists clench and Hamilton storms towards him. The man would press his index finger up to his chest, spew some nonsense all the while Jefferson watches his lips move. His rebuttal often came in the way of spiralling insults and off-handed remarks sounding all too similar to flirtatious commentary. 

_“I'm sure there are better uses for your mouth rather than spouting worthless political opinions at us, Hamilton."_

He remembers with pride how the comment had rendered Hamilton speechless, until he had been forced to sit back down. That was the first debate Thomas officially won against him. He had vowed to never let Alexander live it down. 

“Right, the grounds?” Alexander pipes up, breaking the glass shelter Thomas had been constructing his daydream within. “I think we should start with the grounds. Most interesting, don't you think?” He sashays in front of Thomas, hips swaying in a way that frankly disgusts him. Just like a car crash, he can’t look away. Aside from the tantalising - frankly _temptatious_ \- movement of the man’s hips, the gaudy flair of Hamilton's ego is enough to make Thomas retort.

"I was actually going to say we should look around the house-" he's cut off by Mary and Philip bounding ahead, cries of " _yes yes the farm! I wanna see the horsies!"_ He sighs. The grounds it is.

* * *

Thomas is _this close_ to murdering Alexander in cold blood. 

The petulant child of a man had run rings around him the entire time. When he showed off the sheep and the pigs and the chickens. When they had stood for 15 minutes as Philip fawned over seeing horses and being able to _touch_ them. When he had sighed with relief as Patsy had offered to let Polly and Philip stay at the horses with her. He had sighed in relief and promised her extra dessert tonight. That seemed to cheer her up.

Alexander continues to trail after Thomas, his feet dragging across the floor. The sun beats down, the brow of his forehead has become damp with sweat, and yet he refuses to shed a single layer of clothing. Fuck that.

His reluctance has swelled, to the point where Alex isn't even sure _why_ he's still following Jefferson. 

Thomas spouts off extensive knowledge about the land, hands waving with abundant excitement. Alex walks behind him, unable to see his face though he can imagine it being in a beaming grin, one that he can only picture in his mind as he has never truly seen Jefferson smile. 

"This is my favourite spot in the whole place!" Alexander tunes back in to hear Jefferson exclaim, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Hamilton creeps up to his side, glances over at his face and just as he suspected, he's smiling. Wide and proud and unabashed, gesturing to a slightly dilapidated barn with one hand, the other balled and twitching by his side. It's a rather lovely sight, if he tries to forget who he's looking at. 

Hell, if Alexander didn't know any better well, he would even say Thomas was cute. 

He shook his head, how ridiculous of him. Jefferson? Cute? Those two words didn't belong in a sentence together. The only way that would work would be an insult, but not… not a compliment of sorts. The words twisted their way around Alex's mind, taunting him and laughing at him, pointing a crooked finger. God, Jefferson was _not_ cute. The man was too tall, too big-headed, too- he was too _Jefferson_ to be cute!

"C'mon, I'll show you," Thomas continues, pushing open the metal gate and slipping into a field. When he looks across it, he sees what he had expected. Cows. Milling about in a herd, chewing lazily in the summer sun. He's pushed the fact that this is _Hamilton_ he is with, and focused on getting to share this passion with, if only for a moment.

Alexander grimaces as he sinks one foot into mud - _good god he hopes it's mud_. - When he manages to pull his shoe out again, he finds it's coated in brown mud. He makes a face, poking his tongue out from between his lips. If he were still in a relationship, Eliza would've flicked his tongue and jokingly scolded him for being rude. But he's not in a relationship with anyone.

_Is Jefferson?_

The question hits the forefront of his mind, begging for an answer and sure he _could_ just ask, but couldn't that be dubbed a strange thing to ask the person who is supposedly your political rival? _Political_. Jefferson is only his rival in politics, could he put that behind him..? No. No, not a chance.

As Jefferson strides ahead, hands swinging by his sides, Alexander finds his eyes straying to his fingers. There doesn't seem to be a ring, but the man is here with two daughters. Perhaps he is in a relationship? And yet there is no one here to show that relationship. But maybe she just isn't in the home? The closest town is a few miles away, so it's highly likely the woman in his life is simple miles away. Shopping? Working? He'll never truly know unless he asks.

Jefferson guides the two of them through the longer grass, into the long stretch of shorter, chewed up grass. He observes as the man dodges certain patches, and Alexander finds himself smart enough to do the same. He won't admit to himself that this is him _trusting_ the man he is supposed to hate most.

"Where are you taking me, Jefferson? Are we going to this barn so you can chop me up into pieces?" Alexander huffs, his voice holding a teasing tone within it. He smirks as an audible sigh passes Jefferson's lips.

"I'm taking you to see the barn, and my favourite cow in it. But, if you'd like I could chop you up in to tiny pieces. God knows it would make this trip more enjoyable," his sentence drops to a mutter at the end, as he finally pushes his way through the field and into the barn.

Hay bales are stacked in one corner, and when Alexander looks up there's a hole in the wood ceiling, big enough for a person to climb through. A rotted wood ladder leans surreptitiously on the wall, tucked away behind old, rusty farm equipment that should've been thrown away decades ago. A large pile of loose hay, stretching across the entire back of the barn, lies in a way that if Alexander were alone - or a few years younger - he would've been jumping in.

Yet the most obvious is - true to Jefferson's word - a cow and a calf, laying with their legs tucked under them. He watches as Jefferson pats the bigger on its head, which rises up slowly to his touch.

"Heya, Buttercup," it's such a cliche name that Alexander actually snorts but sneaks over anyway. Jefferson shoots him a disgruntled look, "be careful, move too fast and she'll think you're trying to hurt her baby." He gestures to the calf asleep by the mother' side, continuing to pet the cow on the head.

"Alright," he slows down his steps. It's almost Indiana Jones like, creeping down the barn before he stops by the cows. There's sentences he never thought he would be saying, or thinking more likely. He jumps as her head raises towards him, and a long puff of air expels towards him. "What do I do-?" He panics, having never stood in this position before. Cows are far from the most terrifying animal out there, (Alexander finds jellyfish to be the _worst_ ) but he's never done this in his life and a rush of fear is coursing through his veins for the time being.

"Here, let me help," Jefferson advances towards him, and Alexander gazes up. God fuck that man and his height! He certainly doesn't get it from his mother, that's for sure. She's short. 

Jefferson takes his hand in his own, much larger one and guides it slowly towards 'Buttercups' head, laying it down on top. Alexander chooses to focus on the animal and not the feeling of Jefferson's surprisingly smooth hands over his own calloused ones.

It's their first time without a fight.

* * *

Alexander carefully slides his laptop out from under his bed where he had tucked it for safekeeping. He sits down on the bed, mattress bouncing under him. It's covered in ridiculous looking flannel bed sheets that stick to any bare skin they can find. The room and its attire stenches of _we're rich southerners, get over it._ Photos and small paintings on the wall across from him of small scenes. There's a framed picture he hasn't properly looked at yet, but from where Alexander sits he can make out people in a pool, some making peace signs and someone else sitting on a teenager's shoulders. The people look vaguely familiar, but from where he is, Alexander can't put his finger on it.

He decides not to pay it any mind for how and instead flicks his laptop open, overjoyed to find the wifi password laid out for him like a temptation on the bedside table.

And that's him for the next hour, breaking the strict _no work_ policy Eliza and Maria had set. He feels bad, sure. But not much.

It's as the shout of Eliza calling him for dinner that alerts him from his thoughts. Just as he stands, he takes one last look at the Polaroid picture, framed and hung on the wall. 

It's clearly a selfie, as the photographer is slightly cut out of the photo and their arm is visible in the image. He's young at the time, likely around 15 or so. He sits on the side of a pool, not on the Jefferson land that's for sure. His body is twisted to take the picture. The others are actually in the water, one sitting on the others shoulders. Alexander looks closely.

_It's Madison and Jefferson._

Madison is sat on Jefferson's shoulders, they're in a pool and Jefferson has his head tipped back with a large smile, possibly laughter. Madison smiles down at him, one hand carded through his friends hair to hold on, the other down by his side. They look so happy… likely around 18. Jefferson has his arms around Madison's legs, keeping him up and not falling. As best he can, he's making peace signs to the camera while Madison simply smiles. It's actually nice to look at. Proof those awful southerners are… _people too._ It's crazy to see them young, and… _happy._

It's strange to see Jefferson so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! It's much shorter than I wanted but I hit writers block!!
> 
> Leave comments and kudos, I don't write for yall to ignore the feedback options!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy is more cryptic than necessary and Philip really likes horses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so damn long!

"You know how to ride horsies!?" Philip asks boisterously, jaw open and lax with surprise. At this point, his father and Mr Jefferson had already left, having stood while the three kids oggled over the horses for 15 minutes.

He bounces on the balls of his feet at this new information. Who would've thought it! Patsy has just gained ten times the respect Philip already had for her. And all because of her ability to ride a horse, incredible. 

"Yeah, this one's the one I take out," Patsy moves to pet the nose of a brown horse, dotted with spots of white. "His name is Tiger Roll," she giggles slightly, satisfied with the naming.

"Can I pet him?" Philip rushes over, head over heels at the prospect of horses. He lives in the city after all, the only horses he's seen are ones on TV and the ones that sit in fields on the way here.

"Me too! Me too!" Polly bursts, clapping her hands. A burst of air comes from the horse's nostrils, alarmed by the sudden noise and Patsy calms him.

She nods softly, beckoning them over. "Just be careful, alright? He frightens easily." Patsy informs, taking her sister's hand and guiding it to her - obviously favourite - horse. At least she's not the stereotypical horse girl. Could always be worse.

Philip finds the snack pack and roots through it, producing a sugar cube. "Can I feed him?" He announces proudly, holding the sugar treat in the air for all to see.

Patsy chuckles, "sure! Keep your hand flat and put the treat up to him. He'll do the rest for you." She smiles, always happy to show off _her_ horse.

Philip doesn't stop smiling for a good ten minutes after the horse accepts his treat. He's on top of the world.

* * *

Martha (Patsy) has the patience of a saint, something her father never did possess. Perhaps she got that from her mother, along with her name. The ability to let people carry on, to not get mad or go off on a short fuse. Thomas always seemed to get bored after a bit, tapping his foot and asking if it was okay to go. He needed constant things to do, needed to be occupied before his brain shut down. Her mother could keep up with him, slow him down and show him what was good, how nice it could be to stop and take a look around once in a while.

She's much like her mother in that way, slowing down to see her surroundings every so often. Like now, she uses this time at the farm - _and her father's childhood home_ \- as though it's a comma in one of her many school essays. A place to pause, to take a breath and carry on. Even at fourteen, she can admit when breaks are needed. Perhaps it was her being forced to grow up at a young age, having to realise that the world isn't all sunshine and rainbows and sometimes the people who matter most don't stick around.

Lord knows her father tries his damn best, and Martha Jr knows this. She knows why he only calls her by the nickname gifted to her years ago, she knows how hard he's holding himself together, for them. For her and Mary's sake. 

And then, in retaliation, Patsy holds herself together for him. She knows fair well her father suffers in silence, and slowly she's waiting for that pain to bubble and bubble and spill. But until then, she allows herself to express her upset to him in small amounts. If she were to tip her exasperations onto him all at once the weight would be enough to break him. That's the last thing she wants.

* * *

Martha grasps a branch up higher, every so often she looks down to the ground, just below her Mary hangs upside down on the monkey bar set and Philip flies back and forth on the swing, the two nattering away to each other. She smiles and pushes herself up.

She's always loved to climb, literally and figuratively. To get better and better has always been her goal. Jack of all trades, master of all of them some day too. Or so she hopes. Deep down she knows its nonsensical, _impossible_ but god knows she's willing to try.

This tree is the same one she had popped out of in an attempt to shock her father earlier that day, one she would sit in for hours if given the chance. 

However, the opening of the door out of the kitchen, the one that brings you straight out into the yard, alerts her from her wandering thoughts. 

"Children!" It's her grandmother, oh dear god. Thomas has always refused to speak of her, and whenever he had it never was much too kindly. Always twisted compliments and hissed words once he believed no one could hear. But Martha hears. She always does. 

It's also becoming abundantly clear that Jane - as lovely as she may appear - doesn't know Philip's name. Which should shock her. It doesn't.

"Dinner! Hurry in before I lock the door," Jane threatens jokingly, tone light and breezy. But part of Patsy believes her, believes the white lie that she'll lock them out lest they aren't quick enough for her taste.

She observes her sister clamber down off the monkey bars and speed inside, kicking her muddy shoes off at the door and leaving them on the outdoor step. Philip slows on the swing, hops and Martha is almost certain she hears him whisper breathlessly, " _god, shes scary._ " And she laughs, sitting up in the tree.

"Martha!" Jane yells, her sickeningly-sweet voice fracturing at being ignored. She's used to people listening, to people _obeying_ her every word. And here Martha is, a child, deliberately pushing her to the limit. She will not cave so easily. Let Jane show herself. Or let her… keep herself under control. 

She can hear the heaving sigh. The cogs in Jane's mind turning and clunking as she forces down that anger that Patsy knows is there. "Martha Jefferson Jr, come down from the tree and come eat-!" Despite the joyousness in her words, the grit and sand laced through it smacks Martha across the face and she knows she can't fight anymore.

"Coming, grandmama," she huffs, using the term she hates. It's so Southern, so stereotypical, but it's the thing Jane likes to be called. Martha grips a branch and looks down, checking the stick won't snap before she pushes herself out the tree, swings herself forward and lets go, landing on her feet. She supposes it's good she took gymnastics for that little bit, its kept her balance, showed her how to move through the air like a dance. 

She saunters up, inside and takes her shoes off, humming as she carefully lays them on the outside step by Mary and Philip's own sneakers. Her green trainers, running ones that she really just uses as every-day ones, are coated in a thin layer of mud - _she really hopes it's mud, although it would've been rather funny if it wasn't, she can imagine her grandmother's reaction_ \- and a little sprinkling of hay and grass. She sighs, she'll probably have to wipe them down later.

Across the room, Eliza (who seems rather kind by what she knows so far, which isn't much. She has a maternal smile, motherly eyes that seem never ending in their sparkle. She looked a little uptight, perhaps stress from raising a child, or from being divorced,) Maria, the partner of Eliza (whom Martha knows much more than she needs to about, thanks to her father rambling, wondering how one man can cheat on his wife like that, especially someone as _lovely_ as Eliza.) they're both sitting at the table, Philip and Mary taking their seats too. Mary is already reaching for the ceramic tray on the table, trying to take the lid off when a wooden spoon comes down in a light thud - the sound audible - and she flinches her hand back, tears gathering in her eyes.

"No touching the food until everyone is seated. Did your father ever teach you any manners, Mary?" Jane hisses, perhaps not noticing the way tears congregate in Polly's eyes, rubbing circles on the back of her left hand with her right.

She just sniffles in return and tucks her hands under the table. Philip does the same, afraid of the same treatment. 

Patsy pulls out a seat, the one next to Eliza. The table is long, eight seats around it. Three on each side and one at each end. Maria and Eliza (and now Martha) sat on one side, Patsy beginning to lightly tap her knife off the table to a made up rhythm. On the other, Mary and Philip chatter quietly, Mary occasionally watching her grandmother work on setting up the last bits of dinner. 

Eliza must've called on Alexander a minute before Martha came inside, because she heard the tell-tale creak of the stairs as someone thunders down them, much different to her fathers surprisingly light step. The door clatters open and a disheveled looking Alexander paces in, slowing down his walk as though he hadn't just sprinted down the stairs. 

Martha laughs, quietly to herself and into her hand to disguise it as a cough as Alexander sits down by his son, opposite Patsy. She waits for Thomas, as she always does, before they can eat. She almost expects Alexander to reach for the tray on the table, and he definetly looks as though he wants to, salivating at the delicious smell of chicken and peppers that are surely still smoking away under the ceramic tray.

"Grandma, when ca-" Mary begins to whine, sinking down in her seat with a scowl.

"Its grandmama, remember your manners, dear," Jane says with a smile, such a stark contrast that Patsy gets whiplash. 

Mary huffs and says nothing more, slumps further in her seat until Jane pats her curls and hisses for her to sit up. "Don't show me up, dearie," she hisses, like a rocket Mary is up. "God- where is that man?" Jane storms out into the hall, leaving the door wide open from prying eyes and boy, does Patsy pry. She's curious, needs to know what her " _grandmama_ " will wreck upon the world now. As much as she wants to, she wants to believe that Jane is a kind soul, a loving, caring woman with the wrong ideas. _She wants to believe it._ Although she isn't sure why.

"Thomas Jefferson! Dinner!" Jane calls, cupping a hand over her mouth. Every so often her eyes flick back to the doorway where people look at her, namely Martha and Alexander, both overly nosy. Alexander has had to turn around in his chair just to spy, Eliza seemingly given up on scolding him any further. He's a grown man, let him take care of his own damn issues.

"I was in the parlour, Ma. No need to yell," Thomas mutters, slouched. He draws himself up to his full height when he spots everyone sitting around the table and wipes under his eyes. They're bloodshot red, ever so slightly, and it becomes more obvious as he takes a seat at the end of the table. The end by Maria and Mary, where he taps his fingers off the table.

"Tone," Jane warns with a sickening smile, finally raising the lid off of the dinner. Alexander is practically salivating, along with the children at the smell that wafts towards them. Chicken mounted on a pile of herbs and peppers, presumably cooked in the chicken stock.

Although, Thomas does not seem excited. Once Jane gives the a-okay to gorge themselves, Eliza is straight in, fast hands shooting out to grab the metal spoon and plate herself. Alexander follows closely behind, Philip and Maria hot on his heels. Patsy has been taught to wait, and lets Polly eat before her too, before finally glancing over her father who has yet to take anything. Then it hits her-

"Ma, I can't eat this," he says, finding some courage to stand up to his mother. His lips are pursed, hands clasped in front of him on the table. They shake slightly as they sit there, shivering as though it weren't 80°F out.

Jane whips her head around from where she's been shuffling with an extra spoon for the food. The fire in her eyes seems to single handedly bring the temperature up and extra ten degrees, and her shoes clatter off the tiled floors towards him. "What do you mean you _can't eat it?_ " She questions through her teeth, a sly hiss as her pupils bore into Thomas' own.

He swallows, adams apple bobbing as he does so. Alexander finds himself watching, fidgeting in his seat as the air around them freezes. The tension in the room feels thick enough to be cut with one of the knives on the table, and Alexander locks eyes with Martha for a bit, the look on her face telling him everything he needs to know. _She feels it too._

"I'm vegetarian, remember?" He voices, clicking his tongue as Jane gets even closer. If she were a snake she would be poised to strike, hissing and threatening to try and ward off the threat.

Her tongue flicks between her teeth, " _since when_ ," it's a final _back down_ measure, a last warning before she flips out. 

Thomas sighs audibly and the tension increases by tenfold. His mother advances on him like a lion on a wounded gazelle. Her hands turn like claws, hooked and willing to drag Thomas towards her gaping maw, teeth ready to sink into her prey. "Since- since I was seventeen, Ma. We've been over this."

"I cooked for you! I spent hours slaving over the stove only for you to not eat it?" Jane backs away finally, taking Thomas' fork with her. "How could you? I-"

With the remaining cutlery he has, that being a knife, Thomas slams it down on the table, which shudders and Philip stops eating mid-bite. Patsy glances over, fork still in her mouth and Alexander all but ignores the situation, shovelling food into his mouth as if Jane plans on snatching his plate away. Maria has politely set her silverware down on the tablecloth, and Eliza sips a glass of water.

Thomas shoves his chair out and stands from the table. His mouth opens to speak, and Mary preemptively winces, worried another argument between her father and her grandmother is about to begin. They had argued the day they had arrived over the rooms she and Martha would be staying in, which in the end, dissolved into a screaming match about god knows what, something that wasn't related to the starting topic in the slightest. In fact, all Polly had picked up was, " _she was a better mother than you ever w-_ " and " _you better watch your mouth around me! This is my home!_ " The voices had grown so piercing, Martha had dragged Mary outside to the swing set for a bit.

Instead of a scream, Thomas closes his mouth and fixes his shirt. In a quiet mumble he speaks. "I'm going upstairs, if you need me, I'll be in my room." He doesn't exactly look at anyone as he speaks, and his mind chases a mile a minute. How did Jane, his own _mother_ not know about his eating habits? About his dietary needs he had used since he was a kid? It was a sense of betrayal, that's what washed over him. That's what _kept_ washing over him, even as he left the kitchen, feeling every pair of eyes bore into his back as he exits.

He grips the banister as he heads up the stairs, stomach growling at him with anger - and hunger obviously. He flops down on his bed the second he steps into his room. It's his childhood bedroom, painted with pale blue walls and covered with posters and cork boards. 

Pictures of him with siblings, a lot of him and James and a few random ones here and there. One where he lies across a couch, head in James' lap. His friend fiddles with his hair in the photo, and across to the left Dolley can be seen, laughing at something Thomas said. If he closes his eyes and doesn't move a muscle, he can put himself back into that moment. He can feel James' fingers running through his curls, the suede couch under him. He can hear Dolley's laugh and he can chuckle along with her. 

But when he opens his eyes, his pupils draw focus on another picture. One stabbed right into the top left corner of a cork board with a pin. He sits up slanted in a hospital bed, clad in one of those ridiculous white hospital gowns. Despite his eyes being bloodshot with tears, and the colour being drained from his cheeks as though someone turned down the saturation, he makes a peace sign towards the camera and smiles widely. He doesn't recall who had taken the photo, but he knows exactly _why_ they had. 

The pillow under his head is squishy, and for half a second he ponders why it's so _damp._ Oh. Right. 

On the desk across the room (right above it the cork board hangs), notebooks lie out. It's clear the room literally hasn't been adjusted since he moved out for college, seeing as everything is coated in a thick layer of dust. Maybe he should get some sleep, there doesn't seem much else to do.

* * *

Dinner is eaten in relative silence, occasionally interrupted by awkward chatter, or Martha asking politely for salt. 

"So, Elizabeth-" Jane begins, dabbling at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. 

"Oh, Eliza is fine," she interrupts cautiously. She never had enjoyed the Christian name given to her. Much too formal, and as much as she was a 'traditional' appearing woman, she much preferred Eliza to Elizabeth. Elizabeth made her sound like an 18th century noble and she didn't find that all too amusing.

Jane nods, clearly picking her favourites already. "Well, _Eliza_ ," she drawls the name, each syllable hanging onto the end of her forked tongue. "What's the reason you chose to come down here? I'm sure there are lovely getaway locations in New York." Jane leans delicately on her elbow, placing it on the checkered tablecloth.

Eliza places her fork down and takes a quick sip of water before she speaks, the glass knocking against her teeth. "We - Maria and I - really wanted to get Philip out of New York," she gestures to the child in question who pushes the peppers around his plate as though he has a personal grudge against them. Meanwhile, Mary pokes at hers limply, the complaint of being full ready to meet everyone's ears. "And while I was browsing different sites your farmland popped up! What can I say, it looked so perfect." She mused dreamily. 

"That's lovely, dearie. I'm so happy to have you here," Jane smiles and turns her attention to Alexander, half-way scooping more food onto his plate. She shoots him a look so deadly it feels as though shes stabbed him in the stomach with his own silverware. "And… Alexander was it? Is it not awkward to be here with your… ex?" 

Mouth still full of food he speaks, "exes," he corrects with a wave of his pointer finger. Eliza stares at him, disgusted. "Yeah-" he swallows, "it's not that awkward. We're friends and I mean, we got Philip to look after." Alexander smiles and finishes off his plate cheerfully.

Although something within him, a part of his common sense, _however small it may be_ , tells him it's wrong. It's so wrong to be eating a lovely dinner in a lovely home with a lovely family. With the _Jefferson_ family. Or part of it. Where's the main event? The star of the show? The man with clothing so bright he outshines a spotlight? Where _is Thomas Jefferson?_ In his room? What room? There are so many, Alexander suspects a large family had once resided there. He ponders just how large, after all, the home itself is massive. And the room he stays in looks as though it once bore shelter to a teenage boy. 

It's a few minutes before Mary finally pushes her plate away. "I'm full! Can I go play now? Me and Pip wanna swing!" She's already out her seat before anyone says anything. Jane doesn't acknowledge it, just watches Philip leap off his chair and follow after her.

"It's Pip and I, not me and Pip," Martha corrects under her breath, unable to stop herself. As Maria volunteers to help clean up, Eliza rising to do the same, plates in hand, Alexander leans over the table. Jane is washing dishes, and he speaks in a hushed whisper.

"You're just like your father, aren't you?" He says, unsure if he means it like a compliment or not.

"In a way, I suppose so, yes," Patsy agrees, tapping her chin. That one movement holds so much wisdom, the flash of gold that sparks through her eyes in a split second, the slight curve of her smile. She's smart, she knows it, and she's not afraid to let everyone else know it too.

"He's quite the man, your father," Alexander continues, voice still low as he fears he may alert the others over the other side of the room.

"He's a good man, my Pops. A sad man. A lonely man. But a good one." Martha nods with her words, peering down at her feet under the table. She glances up at Alexander and stands. She hums, "I wonder if you will be the one to change that." With that, she bows her head for a moment and begins to walk away, leaving Alexander with her words and the burning question. 

_What in the hell does she mean?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what does she meeeeaaaan  
> Also why does Thomas have a hospital photo?? You'll see, I already know.
> 
> Leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!! those buttons are there for a reason!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander sits down with Jane to watch some VHS tapes, hoping to clear his confusion. In the end, he is left with more questions than before.

Alexander pushes Philip gently on the swing, listening to his son blabber about the latest game he's been playing with Mary. Alexander manages a smile, its… it's strange.  _ Weird. _ To be on the grounds of the man he supposedly despises, to be pushing his son on the swing set Jefferson probably used as a child, talking about one of Jefferson's children and how her sister is good at climbing trees. It's oddly domestic in a way, a way Alexander can't decipher if he enjoys or not.

Alexander hears Jefferson trudging along the grass before he sees him, hears the slight  _ squish _ of the mud under his feet, the grass damp from the light shower that had occured the night previous. 

He hears the sound of him walking, the soft whistle, a wordless tune that invokes some sort of buzzing in Alexander's veins. He watches as Jefferson walks by them, metal bucket in hand. He seems less happy than he is content, his swagger prominent as ever as he strides straight along. Alexander pretends not to peer as Jefferson places the bucket on a brick wall, low but not low enough to get over without jumping it. And that's just what he does, hops over the wall like it's nobody's business and continues through the long, (yet to be cut) yellowed grass of the field opposite. Alexander watches as Jefferson pats a cow on the head, which lifts up into his touch, eyes closing in the light. Alexander swears he doesn't watch the way Jefferson's hips sway slightly as he walks, and he certainly doesn't look at his ass as he moves further away. He  _ swears it. _

Alexander didn't see more than the back of Jefferson for the next few days. He had spotted his coworker a couple of times, sauntering in and out of the barn where the cows had been lulling before, caring for horses in their stables. One time he had seen Jefferson go into the barn, and yet when he had worked up the courage to eventually glance inside, not a shred of evidence pointed towards him being there. He felt much like he was going insane, seeing merely the ghost of the man he had obsessed over for years.

However his gaze is focused on Jefferson long enough for Philip to begin complaining about the swing slowing down. Enough so that Alexander finally tears his eyes away, pretending to not listen to the whistling grow fainter and fainter as time passes. When Philip hops off the swing to go play hide-and-seek which quickly transitions into a game of  _ chase each other and tackle them to the ground _ , a fun new game that doesn’t have a confirmed name yet, Alexander certainly does  _ not  _ go searching for Jefferson, only to find hm way out into the field, working on a dilapidated looking, rust coloured tractor. He can imagine a younger, child version of the man out there now, perhaps running alongside it, or sitting in the seat himself. Alexander knows whenever he went to farms, (ones where he grew up opened to others living there, an extra way of making money) he was much more interested in sitting on farming equipment, pretending to drive, than he was in actual animals.

He doesn’t watch carefully, pretending to be on a walk, when Jefferson treks back, sweating slightly. 

Alexander has to physically force himself into the house when Jefferson unbuttons his shirt a little more. Goddamn the man. It's deliberate, it must be. The pompous man is doing this simply to irritate Alexander that little bit more. He paces his way through the halls for a few beats, until a quiet  _ mrow _ from behind him perks his head up from where he had previously been examining the floor with a newfound intensity. It’s that tabby cat from before,  _ Cornbread, was it?  _ Alexander scoffs, it’s such an utterly ridiculous name for a cat, he supposes that’s rather fitting of Jefferson’s curious and questionable behaviour. It swats at his shoelaces, catches a claw in one and tugs until the lace comes undone. From there, determined to wreck his shoes, the cat proceeds to chew on the string, hissing between its teeth.  _ Honestly, has this feline been specially trained to make his life that little more difficult? Well, it is Jefferson’s, he wouldn’t be surprised.  _ With the slightest hint of a smile he slips both shoes off, watching with a spark of a laugh as “  _ Cornbread ” _ rolls around, pulling on the shoelace still. Cats can look determined, apparently.

He rolls his shoulders back and steps decadently around the cat, weaving his way around the easy-trip spot the pet has caused directly in the middle of the hallway. He can hear the muffled voices from a TV, a crackle that can only belong to a cassette tape. It intrigues him, clearly young voices shouting on what is either an old 90’s show, or a home video. Alexander almost hopes it’s the last one, the amount of blackmail contained in a single home video of a person as a child is incredibly endearing. Children do some stupid things is all. For example, at the age of four, Philip had consumed copious amounts of paint whilst finger painting at nursery. Green paint on a piece of paper, and then all across his hands and face and plenty in his hair that Eliza had had a hell of a time washing out. Or the video he had witnessed of Eliza as a kid, ballet so it seemed. She must’ve only been five or six at that time, all dressed up in a pink tutu and twirling on the stage. The funny bit only came in when another dancer had minorly stumbled into her, barely visible even on video, but the young Eliza had drawn her arms back and gained the fury of a thousand suns to shove the other child to the ground and get right back to dancing. Or the time in which Laurens had forced Alexander into sitting down and watching a VHS tape of a fifteen year old John as part of his school production of Newsies. Embarrassing, sure. But surprisingly well put together.

For those reasons, the blackmail potential, and the mere thought of seeing a young Jefferson family, has sparked Alexander’s interest to say the least. Before he really registers what he’s doing, he’s pushing the sitting room door open. It’s connected to the kitchen by a set of doors, but also accessible from the hallway through a separate wooden door. 

The living room has low lighting, flannel patterned couches, three of them to make a sort of open square shape. The TV sits on a stand in the corner so it may be seen from anywhere in the room. At the back, by the door Alexander just entered through is a chest of drawers with a dusty - yet fancy - looking chess set that he has a sudden temptation to examine further. The middle of the room hosts a coffee table with a glass top, a sweet iced tea in a glass cup on the table. And perched on the couch across from the TV, the main event. Jane Jefferson herself. Everything about her demands attention, and Alexander finds himself giving her it before he even has time to realise he is. Her hair is greyed, tied back into a tight, high-top bun that makes her short stature appear bigger, more looming. Her eyes are hooded with age, although deep and seemingly filled with knowledge. Filled with wisdom. Something about her screams  _ regal, royalty almost.  _ His eyes are secondly drawn to the television which has since stopped playing, the tape finished. A little ripple of disappointment rolls through him until he spots the cardboard box filled with home videos by Jane’s feet, resting by her brown shoes.

“Alexander?” Her honey tone floats in the room, bobbing in the atmosphere as though a rowing boat on the water. He hums and turns to her again, cocking his head ever so slightly. With a manicured hand, she pats the spot next to her and offers him the glass of sweet tea with the other. He respectfully declines, taken aback by this sudden civility. “Are you enjoying your stay here, dearie?” She asks, and Alexander can’t help but notice the name placed onto the end of her sentiment. It’s the same she had used for her grandchildren. Is that what she sees him as, just another child wreaking havoc upon her grand home?

He fixes his jeans, taking notice of the fact that his fly is slipping down. “I am, yes. Your house, it’s… lovely,” he smiles, taking care with his word choice. It’s not like he’s lying in any way, the home and grounds are both gorgeous, old and exquisite. He can only begin to imagine the cost of maintaining it, and how much a place as glorious as this could sell for. 

“I’m flattered, I do love it here,” Jane muses, cracking her wrists as she rolls them. She turns to the box by her feet and roots around, and a flash of excitement sparks its way through Alexander’s veins. “Be a lamb and put this into the player for me?” She places the tape into his open hand, smiling brightly. He takes a small glance at the tape, on the part that can be written on, hoping for a hint on what the video may be of. Instead he is met with the date  _ September 21st, 1995,  _ which reveals nothing, and Alexander is too lazy to do the maths in his head to figure out how old Jefferson would’ve been.  _ The man is thirty-four now, and his birthday is in April making him…  _ turns out Alexander isn’t too lazy to do the maths, as he figures out while putting the cassette tape on, that in 1995 Jefferson would’ve been Philip’s age, nine years old. He just hopes the man is actually in the video as, as much as he adores his son, nine-year-olds are fucking dumb as all hell. Demon spawn, in the kindest way possible. 

He settles down on the couch, next to Jane who sips her iced tea with a small smile. The video crackles, pops and then plays, typical camcorder quality, a little fuzzy and monochrome, but watchable. And sure enough, it opens with a laugh that can only be described as childlike joy. Alexander watches the film come into focus, and there Jefferson is, hanging upside down on the same set of monkey bars that are outside, someone else climbing the metal ladder to join him.

_ “You like the set?” A distinctly masculine voice asks, the camera shaking slightly as he laughs, deep, brooding.  _

_ A young Thomas nods as best he can, giggling as the blood rushes to his head. “It's awesome! Thanks, Pops!” There’s a slight lisp to his words, evidenced by the gap between his two top teeth as he smiles. The boy swings back and forth, arms hanging towards the ground, only on the bar by his legs.  _

_ “James? Opinions?” The camera swings until it faces a small James Madison, now perched on the top of the monkey bars, sitting there with a wide grin.  _

_ He throws his hands into the air, no sense of danger or caution about him. “I feel so tall!” He woops for all the world to hear, eyes squeezed shut in joy. The set jolts slightly as Thomas swings himself the right way around and hits the floor feet first. He giggles, rubbing his head. _

_ “Dizzy,” Thomas explains shortly, wiping a hand on the front of his yellow shirt. It leaves a dusty stain, obviously from where he had put his palm into the dirt. Rising to his feet he looks up at the camera, beams and waves, bright and boisterously happy. A breath of fresh air. He stumbles on his feet ever so slightly and spins around, peering up at James. “Woah-! Jemmy, you’re up so high!” He yells, as though if he speaks normally, his friend simply won’t hear him.  _

_ James laughs and nods, dropping slightly to hang from the bars, holding on tightly with his hands. “I feel so tall!” He squeals before his grip becomes loose and he falls, luckily landing on his feet. He winces as he does, a shock of pain shooting up through his legs. He rubs at his knees slightly, wiping his sweaty hands on his denim jeans, turned up at the bottom. “That was awesome!” He beams, gazing up at the person holding the camera. _

_ The man behind the recorder reaches down with a chuckle and ruffles Thomas’ wild curls, letting the little boy rock back and forth on his feet. Almost cut out of the frame as the man turns to James is Thomas, bouncing up and down and flapping his hands with the biggest smile, giggling slightly as he did. It’s adorable, to see the little boy so gleeful.  _

_ He claps his hands and the camera turns to face whoever is holding it. It’s a man, tall and smiling. He looks as though he may be in his thirties, slightly grey hairs just at the forefront of his hairline. He smiles, looks down at his son, (it’s obvious that the man is Thomas’ father, they look rather alike. He may not have the same curls, just short hair, tight and compact. They don’t have the same eyes, but they have the same smile. They have the same creases by their eyes, the same wrinkle in their noses, the same perk of lips and the same light that graces their faces.) “You boys promise to be safe?” He asks, accent obnoxiously thick. Although that should be obvious with the fact that he is… Virginian. The last thing that can be heard is a cheer and two squeals of: “promise, (Pops)!” And then the camera cut out.  _

Jane smiles softly as the video ends, sighs out of her nose as though she is relaxed, content. “Do you know James, Alexander?” She asks gently, basketing her hands in her lap. She glances over at the man, raising an eyebrow. It dawns on Alexander how young Jane actually is. He may have raised how old she is, and yet… when he properly looks, she really isn’t. After all, she is only fifty-eight. It’s so strange.

“Yes, yes, I do. I uh- we work together,” Alexander smiles back, the woman's grin warming him from the inside out. It feels like a fluffy blanket on a cold winter night, the same feeling one receives after eating a bowl of hot soup, or laying in front of a fire on Christmas. Perhaps Alexander is feline-like in that way, loves to curl up by a fire with a mug of hot cocoa and marshmallows with a book or a movie. 

Jane nods, “he’s a nice boy,” she mumbles to herself, reaching back into the cardboard box. Alexander steals a glance, written on the front in black sharpie is  _ Memories (Videos) _ “Here, dearie. Put this one in now.”

Alexander takes out the old one, hands it back to Jane who slots it back into the box. He slides the new cassette tape into the player and walks back to sit down as the video plays. He hadn’t checked the date, but this one has the date in yellow in the corner of the screen.  _ March 17th, 2004 _ , which makes Jefferson eighteen. 

_ “Oh my god, Randy, can you not-?” A boisterous laugh folds through the camera, accompanied by the splashing of water. The camera faces Thomas in a pool, curls drenched and limp by his cheeks. His hair is rather long, much longer than it is now. It hits off just below his shoulders, perhaps simply because it’s wet. It’s frizzy, kind of ridiculous to look at. James, who had been sitting on his shoulders, slides off into the water, where it reaches up to his neck.  _

_ The teenager, Randy, behind the camera kicks his feet in the water again, sending splashes that hit Madison and Jefferson in the face. “You’re a spoil-sport!” Light catches off the water and shines off of- metal? Metal in the pool? Yes, that’s what it looks like. Waving in the moving water, where one of Thomas’ legs should be, the left one, just seems to be a stick of metal. A pole of sorts? It’s hard to tell.  _

_ “No, I just don’t wanna go bli-AH!” Thomas starts, but gets caught off by James leaping onto his back again, pushing him under the water for a few beats before he comes back up. His oddly long hair hangs in front of his face, until he swipes it away with his arm and a laugh. “You’re a fucking dickhead,” he laughs and bats at James slightly. _

_ “I acted nice for the photo, but you’re in a pool and it’s so funny to see your reactions,” James cackles, almost evilly, but he’s beaming. Wide and unabashed, all too happy. But not all too happy, that’s a bad description. He’s happy, obnoxiously so. Thomas chuckles as he shucks James off his back and down into the water.  _

_ Thomas dives under the water and comes up right by the camera, reaching for it. Water drips down over the lens a little until it drops off, leaving the image slightly fuzzy in the bottom left corner. The camera is turned just to the boy sitting on the side of the pool, who covers his face for a bit. He’s lanky, long-limbed and thin, but with similar curls to Thomas, just not as thick in volume. “Come on, say hi to the camera, Randy! You’ve been taunting me and James with it all day, your turn!” Thomas laughs behind the camera, holding it to Randy. _

_ “Tom- c’mon man, leave me alone,” Randy waves it off, giggling as he tips his head back, shaking it as he does. He splashes water over and behind Thomas, directed at James who perks up. _

_ “Yeah, Randolph! Say hello to your fans!” James prompts, wading his way over to his friend and his friend’s brother. He holds onto the wall of the pool, gazing up at Randolph “Randy” Jefferson from where he is. _

_ “I hate you,” Randolph shakes his head and flips the camera off. “Hey, whoever the fuck is watching this. Whether it be future me or ma- if it's ma, I’m sorry for my language, feel free to wash my mouth out with soap.” He rakes a hand through his hair, much shorter than Thomas’ own in the video. _

_ Thomas coos and hands the camera back to his brother. “There, was that so hard?” He tilts his head to the side and chuckles, rolling his shoulders back with a smile. “You love me really.” _ __   
  


_ “We all do, Teej,” James nudges Thomas in the side, he flinches and bats at James’ side with a smirk. With that, the three of them giggling slightly, the video ends.  _

Alexander smiles, “I don’t suppose the person whose room I’m staying in was Randolph’s?” He asks curiously, glancing over at Jane who has already started to gather another tape. 

She hums, “yes. I believe so. Polaroid pictures on the walls?” She raises an eyebrow, requesting confirmation. It strikes Alexander as a little odd that Jane doesn’t recall what her son's bedroom looks like, but he figures a large family as a reason. The home is so big, and after a look around inside, the tour Thomas had granted him at the beginning and then his own silent snoop session a day after that where he had seen a family photo in the parlour. Lots of siblings so it appears. Jane hands Alexander another VHS tape and smiles. The date on the front reads  _ June 29th, 1999 _ , making Thomas thirteen at the time of recording. “Here, this is a good one,” she smiles as he slots the tape in, letting it start to play.

_ Up on stage is a teenage Thomas Jefferson, hair tied back into a bun. In his hands are a violin and a bow, both glossy and well kept. In front of him is a stand with sheet music. The recording has been done on a shaky camcorder, held by Jane. A beat of music as Thomas smiles to the audience and glances towards the camera, gives a shuddering wave before poising the bow on the strings and starting to play.  _

_ It starts slow, methodic - robotic almost - as Thomas worriedly glances over at the camera, if not slightly above to meet his mother's eyes. He just wanted to make her proud, make her happy. His movements are jarring as the piece progresses, but his gaze is slowly moving away from Jane, angling downwards towards his instrument. The glide of his bow grows more caring, more flowing, almost as though the music is dancing just from his fingertips. Every cell in his body is tingling, twinging at every note that comes from his violin. His very being is dipping with joy, leaping and jumping inside of him with the melody. It’s welcoming, lets the world around him melt, fall and waver into his single happy place. He forgets the stage and the audience and the camera focused on him, forgets the mother behind the camera. Hell, he forgets the air around him, all he can see, feel and hear is the music. The notes around him. The bow in his hand, the violin resting under his chin and the slow melody he creates. _

_ The bow slides once more across the strings, drawing on longer than every other, and finally the song ends, sweet and soft.  _

_ Applause uproars from the audience, and if Thomas closes his eyes and imagines it hard enough he can see roses being tossed towards him. He opens his eyes quickly, takes a bow and smiles, waving off of the stage. He can feel his heart racing in his chest as the people in the audience's eyes only seem to bear into him, staring right through him. His legs shake as he drags himself off of stage, anxiety building up in his throat. _

_ “That was-” the voice of a younger Jane starts, before the audio fizzles, pops and stops, tape over. _

“I didn’t even know Jefferson could play an instrument,” Alexander comments, humming as he crosses his feet at the ankles. His socks rub together, green ones with snakes on them. Philip had bought them for him on father’s day a year ago, cartoon wavy snakes, stripy light green and dark green, with red tongues sticking out. He remembers fondly the pure glee on Philip’s face as he had handed the hastily wrapped package, in shiny silver wrapping paper. Philip had beamed and told him happily,  _ “I wrapped it myself, dad!”  _ It was obvious, for sure, but Alexander had acted amazed, purely disbelieved for the sake of building Philip’ self esteem, as much as he could in one moment. He wore them as often as he could, to really prove just how much he loved them. And he does. He does love them, even now, a year on, when they’re slightly worn at the heels and toes from the material of his shoes. 

“Oh yes, he’s always played music,” Jane muses, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Violin, cello, guitar and piano, he never could get enough,” her comment is loving in its nature, but spiteful in its tone. Spitting words that have Alexander instinctively winding an arm around his stomach, defensive. “He was good, I haven’t heard him play for a long while,” she adds with a bright smile.

Alexander goes  _ “ooh” _ in a cooing, interested voice. Or it would’ve been if his expression wasn’t so bored and painted on. “One more VHS?” He asks softly. He can’t deny his interest in Jefferson’s childhood, rather intrigued in the man he knows now, and what he was like when younger. How did people manage to put up with him? What drew people to that pompous asshole and his overinflated ego? 

“Sure thing, dearie, try this one,” Jane places a random VHS in Alexander’s hand and hums, leaning back.  _ “God, my back,”  _ she mutters, groaning as she places a hand on her lower back. She presses down, listens to her back crack before she exhales heavily out of her nose with satisfaction.

Alexander has since slid the VHS in and smiles, settling carefully next to Jane. “How old is he in this one?” He asks, swings his legs back and forth and hums.

“I’m not sure.”

_ “Patty-”  _

_ “Tommy.” _

_ The lens is dark, imageless until the hand comes away from around it. If possible, the lens would’ve been blinking in the light. Thomas is lying over the top of the couch, head angled towards the floor. The same way a child dangles off the edge of a sofa, except he's no child, he's nineteen, and just started college. In an apartment he shares with Martha, James and Dolley. Next to him is a short, slightly chubby woman, Martha or "Patty" as he calls her. When they say short they mean short, she’s black with shoulder length black hair that she keeps down at all times. She’s smiling to herself, pleading with Thomas to do whatever the others want him to do. She sits on her knees, slightly behind her as she leans towards Thomas. _

_ "Do it, Tom. Don't be a pussy," James audibly laughs from off side, accompanied by the sound of a kettle boiling. He comes into frame with a cup of chamomile tea, hands it to Martha and sits down on the other side of Thomas. _

_ Thomas huffs, crossing his arms. He always had despised turning down a challenge, giving in was the same as failure and he was terrified of failure. "Guys-" his eyes finally catch the camera and clearly the person behind it. He groans, throwing his head back further and slides down the couch more, torso hanging off the end at this point. "Are you seriously filming this, Doll?" _

_ A giggle and then the camera shakes, moves until its sitting on a shelf across from them. "You better believe it, babe," Dolley "Doll" comes into view, kneeling on the floor. She’s taller than both James and Martha, latina with waist length, straight brown hair. She’s rather muscular too, but then again, she works out a lot with Thomas whenever they have the time. They're waiting, like literal children for Thomas to do something, a magic trick, a disappearing act? Whatever it is, they're infatuated. "Don't be a bitch!" It directly rivals her last words, tucking brown hair behind her ear. She's like that, nice, but a tempter. A teaser. James loves her for it, they all do, but James especially. Not like he's told her that yet. If only he could see the way Dolley looks at him too. Then again, he would have to be looking up to see it. She's 5'7 after all. Not like James is the shortest at 5'4, Martha is thankful a tiny teen at 5'1 ("5'2 on a good day!" She would insist.) And yet they all stand simple ants compared to Thomas' towering height of 6'3 (6'2 and a half, but it's close enough.) A height he certainly inherited from his father and not his 5'5 mother. _

_ "Well now I'm not doing it, y'all are insulting me," Thomas crosses his arms, which only makes him slide further until only his heels dig into the back of the couch, holding him up. The ends of his hair (visibly way too long, a little past his shoulders and curly. If it were to be straightened, who knows how long it would actually be. Then again, everyone makes hair mistakes in college. Even the astounded, revered Thomas Jefferson,) brush off the hardwood floors. That's another thing, there's no carpeting, the only form being rugs, littered around everywhere. _

_ Martha giggles and sips her tea, "it's okay, dear. The kids will just go to bed without a desert," she sticks her tongue out at James and Dolley who groan at varying degrees. Martha is the mom of the household, the only thing honestly keeping them alive. If not for her, they'd all be living off of ramen, canned peaches and chamomile tea. And Thomas wouldn't even know basic first aid. Thomas probably wouldn't be alive to be fair. Without her that is. _

_ "Sorry, mom," James apologises, genuinely, whereas Dolley merely crosses her arms and pouts, faking her upset to degrees higher than she really is. Martha doesn't play around though. _

_ She nods, smiles and pats Thomas' stomach, after all, it's right in front of her. "Please do it for us? You're the only one that's figured it out." She uses her sweetest tone, adds a gentle and pleading, "please sweetheart?" onto the end, seeing Thomas' head perk up to face her. Martha shoots him her most innocent look possible, bats her eyelashes until she knows he'll give in. _

_ And he does. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and slips his glasses off. He hands them to James. "Alright, get out of the way unless you wanna be kicked as I get off this couch." Thomas demands, shaking his head. "You're all pests, can't believe I gave in that easy." He points to the camera, "if you're filming, may as well bring it over and film the whole thing."  _

_ James and Martha have since moved out the way, James putting Thomas' thick framed, black, hipster glasses onto the top of his head to avoid dropping them, while Martha slowly sips her tea, smiling as she does.  _

_ "Just- be careful alright?" As much as James teases his best friend, he really is his world. He doesn't know what he'd do without him. They've always been best friends, as long as he can remember. Thomas was the quiet one, believe it or not, all throughout school and onwards. Then again, the guy had trouble talking to groups of people, hell, anything over two or three people at once. And whenever he went out, to a club with them, to a party, anything similar, he needed a day (possibly two depending on how long he had been out) to recharge before he could go out again. It had been debilitating at one point, stopping him from answering in class, asking a waiter for napkins, or even ordering from Starbucks. Even now, he would pace back and forth, chewing on his nails, - or on the arm of his glasses if he ran out of nail to chew - practising everything he was going to say if he met someone, rehearsing a handshake like a script, a few times even worrying over how he was going to enter a room. He would jump if someone spoke to him unexpectedly, freeze up if another person tapped his shoulder without announcing their presence first. He hated being touched without permission, or by anyone but those he lived with. He was always a jumpy person, literally and figuratively. Jumping to conclusions, to the worst case scenario in every situation until he had worked himself up into such a frenzy he wouldn't leave his room to do whatever he was about to do.  _

_ And James worries about him. Not pity, no, he never ever pitied him. He's… he's proud. Proud of him like a parent is proud of a child who won the spelling bee in school, after worrying and fretting about it, even though the parent knew they could do it the whole time. Yes. He's proud. He worries, worries that Thomas will stress himself to death one day, or will forget to take his medication over panic of choking on the pills, or overthink to the point he never leaves bed. (Which he had, a few times, until the collective workings of James, Dolley and then finally Martha, helped him out. Promising it would be worth it, that there was reasons to get up. And eventually it had worked.) _

_ All in all, even though he teases Thomas to hell and back, he cares about him more than anything else in the world. All the way until middle school it was just him and Thomas against the world. And now their group had doubled to four people against the world. They had total plans to overtake it. _

_ Thomas smiles softly at him, "no promises," he nudges James in the side. Dolley grabs the camera, waves to it first and runs after Thomas. And wow, his hair really does look like an early 2000's mistake. Too long for the shape of his face, hanging below his shoulders. He pushes the window at the back of their open plan living room open. Most of the apartment is just that, open plan, was cheaper that way. The only bits that aren't open are the bedrooms (three of them, Martha and Thomas share,) and the bathroom.  _

_ "Can't believe I'm scaling the fucking building because you're all too lazy to wait on an electrician," Thomas mumbles and forces the window open further. _

_ Martha sips her tea again, a long slurp that has Thomas wincing. "You're tall enough to fix the aerial," Dolley huffs behind the camera and chuckles, "I'll make you banana muffins."  _

_ Thomas whips around from where he had been leaning out of the window and smiles. "Really?" He asks gleefully, almost like a little kid, giddy. James seems to perk up too, Dolley is an excellent baker. _

_ "Yes really-" Dolley swats at James who keeps nudging her. "-yes Jemmy, I'll make you some too. We can all have some, a token of Thomas' bravery!" Even though it can't be seen, it's clear she's smiling devilishly behind the camcorder. _

_ Martha places her cup of tea down, sighing ever so slightly. She taps a finger off of Thomas' chest, beckons him to lean down until he does and whispers something into his ear that makes him flush red, down his neck and up to the tips of his ears. She giggles and steps back, watches as he scrambles to lean out of the window once more. She hums as she takes another drink, her china cup almost out of tea. It's the nicest cup the four of them own, and it's hers. And sometimes Thomas' when he's not feeling well, it seems to cheer him up, knowing Martha is letting him use her favourite cup. "Don't fall," she adds, watching as he gets one leg out onto the stone windowsill. _

_ "Thanks for the top-notch advice, Patty," Thomas chuckles, which has him shaking and James wincing. God forbid he falls. _

_ Dolley holds the camera out and up as Thomas balances on the windowsill, gripping onto the grooves in the building tightly. They live on the second floor of the apartment block, four stories high in total. He gives a confident wave to the camera and pokes his tongue out before reaching up higher and pulling. His feet come off of the windowsill, up and dig into dips in the stone, holding on for dear life.  _

_ All the while, he mutters obscenities. "Why can't you just call the fucking landlord?" His voice grows fainter as he goes up towards the aerial, the device James constantly joked was being used to contact aliens. It certainly looked like it. _

_ "He hates us-!" Martha reminds shortly, giggling as she watches Thomas let go of the wall with one hand, grasping the aerial and turning it to the left, back into place. They had experienced a small storm the night previous, wind moving the aerial so it wouldn't catch a signal, therefore making them unable to watch any TV channels but Fox News and no one bar Thomas was all that interested in watching Conservatives yell at other Conservatives for not being Conservative enough. Apparently he found it "funny." _

_ A small meow comes from down by Dolley's feet and she turns the camera down towards the noise. "Hey, Concrete," she coos, followed by a gentle laugh. The cat is small, clearly a newly born kitten, tiny and hobbling around awkwardly on four paws as though only just learning how to walk. She lets the kitten gently behind the ears, "why did you let Tom name your cat again?"  _

_ "I don't know," Martha scoffs and peaks out the window. "Why'd you name him Concrete again?" She calls up towards Thomas, smiling to herself. _

_ "He's grey!" Thomas responds, a shout back down. His voice carries with the wind, letting the rest of Virginia know that 'he is, in fact, grey.' "Leave me alone, it's a great name." He mumbles afterwards, shortly followed by a laugh from James.  _

_ Thomas twists and turns the aerial, before he glances down at the ground below him and heaves. "Fuck it's high-" he shudders. It's been a while since Thomas looked down, despite the many, many times he's had to do this exact thing. "Alright, get out the way of the window I'm coming back in." He yells down, the camera shakes slightly in the wind. Thomas does just that, quickly clambers back down. _

_ He sets one foot on the windowsill, and just when the gang thinks he's made it- _

_ He loses his footing. His left leg buckles and slips, almost sending him off the wall. His eyes widen. This is it, this is the end. The great Thomas Jefferson is going to topple off a building at age nineteen and meet his demise. Goddamn it-  _

_ James catches him under the arm and pulls him up until both of his legs are inside and he can stand. He's safe- he's safe and he's in his apartment and he's safe-!  _

_ "You gotta stop jumping off of buildings, man-!" James hits him gently off the arm. His voice is teasing, but in his eyes is pure horror, fear. His heart had gotten caught in his throat, and all he had seen in that moment was his friend, his friend at fourteen, and he knew he has to stop him. He had heard the scream before it had even came, and was determined to stop it before it could come from Thomas' lips. He refused- he refused to have a repeat. Or worse- worse- the end Thomas had sought those some five years ago. He had seen his friend, his best friend, the same way he had seen him five years ago, the way he had promised himself he would never let Thomas look again. _

_ Thomas laughs, places a hand over his chest and feels his heart hammering against his palm. "Didn't even have the chance to write a note this time!" He jokes back, wiping a watery tear from his eye. There from fear. _

_ The kitten meows, begging for attention, which Thomas gladly grants it what it desires. He almost picks up 'Concrete,' but the cat hisses as the hand touches his belly and Thomas retracts. "Oh so you'll accept being picked up when I'm busy but not now, I see how it is." He mutters and giggles slightly. _

_ The video ends when Martha rushes forward and wraps both her arms around Thomas' middle, her head only just reaching his chest. Perhaps not even, she could be up on her toes. Thomas ruffles her hair, and the tape ends, Dolley laughing gently in the background. _

Alexander is the first to speak, Jane just keeps staring at the fuzzy screen. "His hair-" he points out, "did no one tell him to get a haircut?" He snickers softly, pursing his lips. He keeps thinking about certain parts of the tape. That Martha, what did she whisper into Jeffersons ear that got him to blush so intensely? (Additionally, Alexander decides that he likes Jeffersons blush, it's frankly hilarious, how the red goes all the way up his ears.) What did James mean by,  _ "You gotta stop jumping off of buildings, man-!" _ and why did Jefferson respond with,  _ "Didn't even have the chance to write a note this time!" _ This Martha, she appears to be in a relationship with Jefferson  _ and _ on top of that, one of his children is named Martha. Perhaps- perhaps that  _ is _ his wife. It would make a lot of sense… wouldn't it? But if she was, for all the time Alexander had spent at the home, why hadn't he seen her? A divorce maybe? And that cat. That is not the same cat that encircled him out in the hall, that's obvious. Then again, the video is filmed fifteen years in the past, it's possible the cat in the film has passed on. Whatever the reason, it's intriguing to him. Jefferson likes cats, that's… not what he had imagined to be frank.

The video had, imprinted into the corner, the year, which was 2005. Jefferson would've been nineteen, still in college and by the looks of it, living with his friends. When he does the maths, he realises that if Jefferson is thirty-four now, and his eldest daughter is fourteen, then he was only twenty when she was born. Still in college, still living with his friends and presumably- still with Martha. ( _ Patty, Martha, whatever Thomas had called her in the video. _ ) That's young to have a child, certainly.

Jane manages a weak chuckle, and Alexander takes in how much she has paled. "Ms Jefferson, are yo-" she cuts him off by pushing the heavy box of cassette tapes towards him with a forced looking smile.

"I'm fine dearie, do you think you could take these up to the attic for me? Thank you doll," she doesn't even wait for Alexander to give an answer, just stands, trying her best to prove she's old and frail, hobbles off to the kitchen to, "  _ cook for my veggie son!  _ " 

Alexander shrugs and picks up the box in his hands, huffing as it knocks the air out of his chest. By no means is he out of shape, soft in a few places and thin around his waist, but he  _ does _ work out. Or more… he  _ did. _ Work takes a lot of time, leaves little for exercise.

He lugs the box up the steps, too distracted by his own huffing and puffing as he walks down the hall towards the stairs that would take him to the attic to hear anything else. He sighs, waddles his way up the stairs and pauses. Would it be so wrong to have a nosy around? Jane asked him to go up to the attic to put some things back, nothing bad could come of it surely.

Alexander heaves the box until it's stacked on top of two others and sighs, catching his breath as he searches for a light. He finds the switch hidden away in the corner, turns it on until the the single bulb flickers and lights up.

He sighs with relief and looks around the now illuminated attic. Boxes upon boxes, piled up on top of each other, no more than three high. Some lay open and scattered across the floor. In the corner is a clothing rack, with suit jackets and old dresses hanging from it. On top of another box, one which is taped shut, is a neatly folded pile of baby clothes, years old and coated with a thin layer of dust.

Alexander advances past the pile towards an open box, lit up in the dull yellow light, entitled across the side in what seems to be a purple sharpie, " _ Elizabeth. _ " He reads it and shrugs, reaching in blindly. In his hand he grasps a stack of photos and pulls them out, observing the first one. It's a teenager, one who looks an awful lot like Jefferson but female. Must be his sister.

He drops the photos back into the box and hums, tapping his fingers carefully off the top as he looks around. Nothing really catches his eye until he looks into the farthest corner, and there, tucked away, is an open (slightly ripped) cardboard box with the words, " _ Thomas (1). _ "

_ How interesting. _ Alexander muses to himself as he makes his way to the box, his questions from the last video he had watched still playing repeatedly in his mind. Why had Jane reacted so harshly? What, for Gods sake, what did James and Thomas mean, joking about falling off buildings? Falling? Jumping? He couldn't recall the phrase in full.

He pulls the box down, listening to the dusty  _ thwap _ as it hits the old wooden floors. Alexander coughs, dust caught in the back of his throat to the point where he keels over himself to clear it. He hits himself on the chest once, twice until he gathers enough clean air into his lungs to breathe comfortably again. 

"Jesus," he manages, exhaling speedily out his nose. By the looks of it, this box is labelled  _ (1) _ , suggesting the existence of multiple boxes, but based on his quick scan, they're tucked away behind stacks of other things and Alexander isn't strong enough to root around in the attic of his political enemy's childhood home to find them. Instead, he digs his fingers between the cardboard flaps of the box and pulls them open, greeted by the action throwing more dust into the air. This time however, he holds his breath and fans the dust away. 

"What do we have here..?" That's one thing he does. Alexander has the tendency to talk to himself when alone and looking for things. It's a habit he picked up in the Caribbean, after losing everyone he was left without anyone to talk to, to he turned to himself. He had dropped the habit mostly by now, but it came out occasionally, in moments much like these.

He reaches in, able to see everything in the box and roots around.  _ A photo album _ , he places it by his side and goes back to looking. Alexander is kneeling, by the cardboard box, tipped up slightly for easier access.  _ A few random pieces of baby clothes, a rattle, a pacifier _ . He ignores most of this, but he shakes the rattle (mostly white with a blue stripe across the rop), unable to resist. He looks at a tiny pair of dungarees, almost unable to imagine Jefferson that small at any point. He used to imagine the man appearing, fully formed, on Earth, smiting the ground just to irritate Alexander to no end.

Now he knows this to be false, afterall, he had just watched a tape of a nine year old Jefferson (and Madison) which he hasn't thought about much but when he does- it's so strange. That those ruthless politicians were once innocent little kids too. He doesn't know what to think. So he thinks about that video more, about Jefferson's dad in the video, how nice he had seemed. Alexander hasn't seen him around the house, saw him in a family photo, saw him in one wedding photo up in the hall, but that was all. He saw no photos of Jefferson past the age of eighteen hanging up around the place, the only thing he had seen was that one tape fron 2005. It's peculiar is all, perhaps he'll ask Jane about it sometime soon. Although she seemed eager to be out of his company.

Alexander sighs, rubs his temples and breathes deeply. All the things running around his brain are making the edges of his mind go fuzzy, pulling him into a vortex he fears he won't be able to drag himself back out of if he falls. 

A long moment later he manages to gather himself enough to open his eyes and flip open the photo album. And the box lives up to its labelling.  _ (1) _ , the beginning. The start of Jefferson so it seems. As the first image is that of a baby, a baby in hospital, held by an exhausted looking Jane. She smiles towards the camera, attention taken off her sleeping baby. Jefferson seems to have been born with wisps of hair, not a full head of hair as Alexander had seen on other babies, nor bald. He smiles and skids his thumb over the photo, gently as to not leave a fingerprint on the printout. It’s almost strange to think about, the fact that the photo is thirty-four years old. Older than Alexander himself. That hits him in the face, Jefferson was already two when Alexander was even  _ born.  _

He turns the page, casting aside the thought of birth and death, a topic that always tumbles around in his mind when thinking about life in general. It should serve as no surprise that the albums many first pages are baby pictures, all dated from 1986 as they should be. Photos of an older sister, about one year old, toddling and smiling at a sleeping Jefferson. Elizabeth, was that her name? He thinks so. There are a lot of photos of a baby asleep, and Alexander can see the progress of hair growing in, just by looking at the photos. He moves from his knees to sit cross-legged on the floor, humming. Again, more and more photos dated 1986 in the corner, until he turns the page once more, only for it to be a photo of Jefferson, sitting at a table, or more so standing on a chair, looking down happily at a cake made to look like a big chocolate caterpillar. 1987. His first birthday. 

Alexander coos, that’s adorable, it’s so adorable to look at. A very happy, very excited one year old, beaming at a cake. It reminds him of Philip’s first, when he had insisted on wearing the same paper crowns you get out of Christmas crackers, except he and Eliza didn’t have any, so Alexander had rooted through their upstairs cupboard, found the box of Christmas decorations and pulled a cracker with Philip, all to give him a green paper crown. It had been good, really good actually. Alexander takes another look at the photo of Jefferson on his first birthday, and sees in the corner of the photo, sitting on the table, is a cream coloured, rabbit stuffed toy. In fact, that same bunny was in all the baby photos, minus the one of Jefferson in his mother's arms, still in hospital. He smiles, flipping to the next photo.

The Jefferson’s at the beach, maybe abroad, but the photo is of Jefferson, his older sister, his father and another baby, a little boy asleep in his dad's arms. The three of them (plus the baby) stand gleefully behind a sandcastle, lopsided on the left, where Jefferson is standing, proud. All their knees are covered in sand, and Jefferson hangs onto his father's arm as best as he can. Sitting on top of the sand castle, on top of a tower of sorts, was that same cream coloured bunny toy, except this time coated in a little bit of sand. He imagines that Jefferson may have cried when realising his stuffed toy was covered in sand, and typically Alexander would delight in the mental image of Jefferson crying, but not this time. It seems cruel to think about that sort of thing, so he casts it aside and grimaces. 

Alexander decides that he’s been cooped up in the attic long enough, tucks the photo album back into the box when something else catches his eye. It’s the cream coloured rabbit, the one in all the photos. He reaches in and pulls it out, rubs the fabric of the ear between his fingers. The fur is worn, kind of dusty and not the same bright colour, not even close. One of the eyes, simple black ones that are weaves with thread into the toy itself, has been picked off so the thread is tattered at the edges. It’s obviously old, a relic to look at. It’s nice to look at. 

Alexander doesn’t know why he does it, but he tucks the stuffed toy under his arm and places everything else carefully back into the box. He places it back where he found it, stacked on top of another two. As he leaves the attic, he switches the light off, listening to it fizzle and crackle until it goes out. He hums, practically skips down the stairs, filled to the brim with new information in his mind. All these little things about Jefferson, the things he used to do in college, his cats, (or at least one of them, he isn’t sure if the kitten from the video is still alive. Obviously no longer a kitten) the way he and James previously interacted, the baby photos. It’s strangely domestic, especially for people who hate each other.

But Jefferson has secrets, he knows that much. There are things he needs the answer to, now that he has a little knowledge, he desires more. He  _ requires _ more. 

Alexander makes his way back to his room ( _ his room? Randolph’s room? _ ) and takes the stuffed toy out from under his arm and places it on the desk in the corner. He smiles to himself and breathes out his nose. He pulls his laptop out from under the bed and drops it into the covers. He still has so much work to do, including answering emails from Washington. And then after that, he needs to make edits to his debt plan. The last time he presented the plan to Congress, both Jefferson and Madison tore it to pieces. He had to fix it, fix all of it. 

_ Mr Washington, _

_ In response to your previous email, I would like to propose we jekdnsldm sms. _

He never gets to finish typing his email, in fact his sentence is rudely interrupted by a keysmash as someone wretches the computer out of his hands. “Gotcha!” Eliza’s clear voice cuts through, “I  _ knew _ you had to be doing work when you weren’t around anyone!” She tucks his laptop under her arm and stares him down. “You lied to me. I don’t like that.”

“Sorry, Liza,” he apologises, looking down at his lap. His fingers fidget together, thumbs rubbing against each other. 

Eliza sighs, turns her head up to the sky (ceiling more like) and mutters a shirt, “ _ lord give me strength _ ,” before she glares back at Alexander. “Come downstairs, Pip wants you to play with him.” 

Alexander sighs, “can I finish my email-?” He reaches outwards towards his laptop, towards Eliza who steps away. She shakes her head with a stern look. “Ugh, fine. I’m coming, I’m coming,” he stands, rolls his shoulders back and smiles as best as he can.

When he does walk downstairs, he hears yelling. Yelling coming from the parlour so it appears. But he can’t pick up on anything other than,  _ “Que Dieu sauve votre âme!”  _ Which he recognises as, “may god save your soul!” Followed by a quick shout of,  _ “Ce n’est pas moi qui ai besoin d’économiser!”  _ Or “I ain’t the one who needs saving!” 

He grimaces and keeps going, realising it’s Thomas and his mother in a fierce yelling match. When Alexander progresses into the living room, he sees Patsy and her younger sister Polly are sitting on the couch, playing an old looking Crash Bandicoot game on what might be a PS2. Jesus how old is that- the volume is up, and every so often Patsy grimaces as she picks up the screeching French, perhaps she speaks it too. 

“Hey, Pip,” Alexander waves at Philip, who’s watching them play and waiting for his shot. 

“Dad!”

“I fucking hate you!” Thomas’ voice finally cuts through the noise, followed by the slamming of a door, so much so that the house feels like it shakes. He storms past the room, grumbling to himself the entire time. The front door opens and then closes again, leaving Alexander to wonder…

_ What the fuck happened? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this took so long but look!!!! its 9k words!!!! it's fun i think 🥺👉👈
> 
> leave comments and kudos, i dont write for yall to just ignore the buttons!! :((


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander finds something out about Jefferson that he never really thought possible. It's a good day.
> 
> It is not a good day for Patsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i will disappear for over a month and then re-appear with a 5k word chapter 😌

Thomas hops carefully over the wall, pretending he can’t see Philip and Alexander from the corner of his eye. He just wants to go for a walk, he wants to work on equipment and he wants to go back to the barn. He just wants- he needs some peace, some quiet. Is it too much to ask for? A little peace and quiet? He feels Hamilton’s eyes on his back everywhere he goes, which he doesn’t know if he enjoys or not. It does - for one - make him flush, makes a little bit of pride swell in his chest, enough to make him sway his hips, give Alexander something to look at in a way. He pats a cow, _Laurie if he isn’t mistaken_ , smiles as she lifts her head into his hand. 

He spends most, if not all, of his day out on the grounds, working on equipment he recalls from his childhood. It’s so fun to be around it all again, and he almost wants to give his mother a piece of his mind for allowing such a valuable (in both real money and nostalgia points) item get into such a dilapidated state, rusty and ugly. 

As Thomas made his way back across the field, it’s late into the night. It’s somewhere close to eleven o’clock at night, but he has no plans of sleeping. Everyone else is long since asleep, or he believes that to be true until he walks inside. 

_The TV in the lounge is still on._

He muses in his mind, deciding to turn it off and continue on what he was planning to do. He eases the door open, only to see his daughter, sitting on the couch and staring rather blankly at the television screen. “Patsy, are you alright?” He asks as he slips into the room and sits down next to her. He leans over and flicks a lamp on, seeing his daughter with tear stained cheeks. A striking of guilt fires through his chest, digging into his heart.

With a long sigh, heavy, leaving her chest heaving - she slips and rests her head on her father's shoulder. “Can’t sleep,” she mutters, eyes sliding closed as she speaks. 

Thomas raises both of his eyebrows, it surprises him. He should’ve gained that from the appearance of her - clad in green fluffy pyjamas and green socks. But he hadn’t. “Why’s that?” He enquires again, winds his arm around her shoulders as she exhales and leans against him more. “Something bad happen today while I was out?” He typically wouldn't question such a thing, more often ask _what happened?_ Or, _are you alright?_ Maybe even, _what’s the matter?_ If he truly believed something was wrong. However, Thomas phrases himself more worriedly this time, with Jane hanging around - and he _knows_ what she’s like. So he wonders, worries and prays that she hasn’t treated them the same way she treated him. 

Sometimes he questions why he even keeps contact with his mother. Perhaps it’s because, part of him, not as small as he would like, craves her attention. Her affection and her approval. He _thrives_ off her pride in him, knowing he’s kept her happy or made her proud. That’s all he wants from her, that’s all he’s ever wanted from her. He recalls being thirteen and playing violin on stage, in front of their entire community. He can feel his heart still racing in his chest when he thinks about all those eyes watching him. Thomas can see himself searching for his mother in the crowd, peering over his instrument for the first minute of playing, just wanting to keep her happy. That would be enough. To just - keep her _pleased at least._

“No,” Patsy sighs, breaking Thomas from the way his mind races. Patsy knows how his head works, how it taunts him with the things he has done in the past in horrendous ways. Like jesters putting on some horrific show for the king with him as the main event. The big joke. He wishes she didn’t know, that she didn’t _have_ to know. He blames himself for that, blames himself for her growing up so fast - _too fast._ Thomas feels like he’s putting her through the same thing he had to do as a child. Even though he isn’t. 

“You’re sure?” Thomas checks in every so often, the same way Patsy does with him. They look after each other really, occasionally dropping in to make sure the other is okay, allowing them to spill their emotions if needed. Patsy did this more often, talked about how she felt, Thomas has a thick shell and brick walls built up around him. They don’t appear from anywhere, defense mechanisms - you have to get them from somewhere. 

Patsy sniffles and wipes her nose on the rolled up sleeve of Thomas’s shirt. “No,” she says again, her voice wavers as she does. She clings onto his side carefully, which she hasn’t done since- 

Thomas’ heart freezes, skips two beats and runs up to his head, pounding against his skull. Since her mother. Patsy never ever held onto him anymore, never wanted the support even when Thomas would offer it, push it and double - _no, triple check_. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks her, pulling her closer until he feels his shoulder grow damp. Patsy shakes with small sobs, a way he can’t even remember her crying in a long time.

“I think too much-” she finally comes out with, lips twisted into a perpetual frown. “I’ve been thinkin’ too much again.”

Thomas understands, he doesn’t need to say it, but he does. “I’m sorry,” he says instead and rubs her back, fiddles with the ends of her hair - almost as springy as his own - and lets her cry as much as she needs. He gets it, sometimes you need a good sob to let it all out. 

Just as he believes she's recovering, based on how her sobbing has died down to low whimpers, she whispers into his shirt, " _I miss mama_." 

It's the first time since Patsy was five that she's said _mama_ . It was always _mom_ after that, and even then, she was barely mentioned. Thomas could never bring himself to raise her name. It struck him hard in the chest, much like a twisting, hooked-end dagger, stabbed straight through his shirt. A crimson stain on his front… 

He feels his cheeks grow quickly damp and he pulls Patsy closer. "I do too, you know I do. I'm sorry-" he chokes out, "I'm so sorry."

The two of them sit there for a bit, weeping and rambling softly. Patsy grows lax, her head nods as she drifts off slowly, eyes fluttering as she forces herself to stay awake. Thomas knows just how to deal with this, he's had to multiple times.

"Why don't we put on a movie?" Thomas suggests, knowing within the first five minutes of _Princess and the Frog_ , Patsy would be asleep. It's always been his sure-fire way to coax her off to sleep, often accompanied by him braiding her messy hair, or her braiding his for a distraction. 

He waits for Patsy's slow nod into his chest before he reaches for the remote, spends a good five minutes cursing the old ass TV before finally managing to get the movie playing.

Patsy is holding him just as tight as the Disney castle shows on screen, but her head bobs as the screen darkens for a second. And for that second, in the room only illuminated by a single lamp, Thomas sees his reflection in the television screen. He sees his face, a perpetual frown, stress-lines already on his forehead and by his eyes. He's almost certain he spots a few grey hairs wiggling their way through. And that's all spotted, thought upon and criticised within half a second, God knows what other imperfections he could find with a period of time to actually _study_ his own reflection.

But there isn't time for Thomas to worry about himself, there's someone much more important drifting off by him. And that makes him frown more so. 

Lord, give him strength.

  
  
  


_Okay, maybe Thomas is actively avoiding Hamilton but… can he be blamed?_

The shorter man surely makes up for his small stature by being the biggest pain in the ass known to man.

And yet it seemed wherever he went, Alexander showed up. One time he had gone into the barn and done what he had done all the time as a child, especially with James. Clambered up a rickety wooden ladder until he stood on the wide platform on the left side of the barn, up towards the roof by a large hole. He had jumped and pulled himself through to sit outside on the roof. As he had done so, he had seen the man himself - the massive thorn in his side peek his head into the barn, look around, sigh, and leave. It had been one strange experience. 

Thomas is making himself a glass of orange juice when his mother shuffles into the kitchen. They stand on opposite sides, don't say a word as he turns the cold tap on to add water. It's awkward and quiet, and Thomas looks back over his shoulder to see Jane, staring rather disgusted at his back.

She meets his eyes as he fully turns around, turning the tap off as he goes and taking a small sip from his glass. The juice is too strong, too much cordial compared to the amount of water he added, but lest see him mess up in front of his mother. She sighs. "When you gonna move on, Tom?" She mutters.

The question comes out of the blue, most of them do. Thomas isn't aware she was watching old tapes of him, ones including Martha - a name he can't even bring himself to say anymore, Jane is likely feeling nostalgic in the worst way. Nostalgic in a, _let's berate my son,_ way. It’s a moment Thomas has learned to dread, has learned to study her stance and her tone to pick apart every little detail, to figure out his exact response as to not anger her. And after all that work, there’s still a 50/50 chance that Jane will _stay_ calm. 

Judging by the way she leans decadently on the island in the middle of the kitchen, a box of cereal left open from the morning still on the counter-top near her, she expects an answer. Hopefully. Thomas truly never can be sure. “What do you mean, Ma?” He only asks for an explanation as he really just _doesn’t understand what she wants from him_ . Nor does he understand what she _means_. 

"You're in your thirties for crying out loud, when I was your age-" Jane begins, pushing herself from slouching on the island to straight up, "-I had my last kid. Actually, I had my last child when I was thirty three." She continues and makes her way over to him, shaking ever so slightly. Thomas drinks a long slurp from his cup. "When are you gonna move on?" She repeats her question.

"From…?" Thomas wonders if he really is stupid. It's those same words coming back to him, the ones that always come back to him. Maybe it’s the years of insults messing with his head, or maybe it’s something else, he can't be sure. But he really does feel like a goddamn idiot in the moment. Then again, he’s speaking to his mother, and she holds the remarkable ability of making even the smartest of people question their own intelligence. It’s not fair. She’s like a person with magical powers, ones she should be saving the world with, and yet she only uses them for evil. 

“Do I seriously have to spell it out for you?” Jane hisses, grimacing as Thomas takes yet another large gulp from his glass, Adam's-apple bobbing as he does. Thomas merely blinks at her, the cogs in his mind whirring as he tries to figure out what the _flying-fuck she means._ “Martha! When are you finally going to move on? Find a different wife?” She smooths down the front of her shirt, covered in an apron. It’s white with a pink pocket across the middle. “Your daughters need a mother, a little girl needs her mother. How is a girl supposed to grow into a woman without another woman teaching her?” 

Thomas continues to stare at her, a mixture of awe and distress painted across his face. Is… is she being serious? Is that all Jane thinks of? Not her son’s happiness, not his well being. But, she’s worried about his children not having a mother. Perhaps that would’ve been sweeter without the context. She’s well aware - more than aware - of his sexuality, how he may not find a wife at all. He doesn’t plan on marrying again anyway, not after he promised Martha. “Well, I grew up without a father, didn’t I?”

“You did, and look how you turned out,” Jane scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest, staring up at him. He remembers the days where her looks would have warmth hidden under all that hardness within her stare, but things have changed, and now her glares hold merely ice. “Don’t make the same mistake I did, Thomas. I wish I had remarried after your father.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Thomas waves his hand, “what do you mean, _look how I turned out?”_ He clicks his tongue, his eyes narrowed with horror. Does she mean what he thinks she means?

_“A disappointment.”_

The words cut deep into his chest. Thomas knew she always thought it, and in the heat of battle she had said it before, but always as a shrill scream followed by the screech of, _“get out! Get the fuck out of my house! Get out!”_ and him scampering to escape. But never so calm and collected and… and _sincere!_ It really hurts, more than he thought the words ever would. Perhaps that's why something in him snaps, the fuse finally burns up and explodes, sticks of dynamite that were his bones finally causing an eruption.

“I’m sorry, _I’m_ the disappointment?! Have you looked at yourself recently? God, it’s no wonder none of your kids want to speak to you anymore! You’re an asshole!” Thomas fights back.

“You’ve changed, Thomas,” Jane seemingly ignores his comments, as she does usually. “You used to be so sweet, so understanding, so nice to your darling mother,” she shakes her head, temper growing. It’s evident in the way she goes red with anger, up to her ears that are practically billowing with smoke, great grey clouds, similar in colour to her hair. 

“You mean I used to be scared-?” 

“Scared of what?”

“Scared of you.”

Jane cackles, evil. A Disney villain he regularly equates her to. A disgusting, vile villain. “Oh sweetheart, how was I ever scary?” She bats her eyelashes, staring up at him with delight. “I was nothing but good to you! It’s that Martha, she changed you! She turned my own son against me!” Her voice keeps growing increasingly louder, and Thomas has to force himself not to force his hands over his ears. _It’s too loud, it’s too loud, it’s too-_ “I was a better mother than she could ever have been-!” Thomas hears someone coming down the stairs - he isn’t sure who, but whoever it is he’s desperate to make sure they don’t have to hear this argument. 

So he switches to French.

_“Don’t you fucking dare compare yourself to her!”_ Thomas says in a low hiss, his voice flipping to match the language he’s speaking. _“She was a ten times the mother you’ll ever be!”_

_“She was weak.”_ Jane pushes Thomas’s chest. It sends him over the edge, and god bless whoever is coming downstairs, may they pray they don’t understand French because all hell is about to break loose.

_“May god save your soul!”_ Thomas isn’t even Christian, not anymore. But his mother is. Maybe it’s wrong of him to use her religion against her, _fuck_ it’s definetly wrong of him, but he sure does believe in his words.

_“I’m not the one who needs saving!”_ A resounding slap bursts into the air as Jane reaches over and smacks Thomas right across the face, backhanded on his cheek that leaves tears gathering in his eyes. He remembers. He thinks. He can’t think. He doesn’t think. 

“I fucking hate you!” Thomas yells, wet and bitter tears slipping down his cheeks as he storms from the house, slamming the door behind him. As soon as the door closes he lets loose a sob, heavy and long into the air. The sun has set, and despite Jane saying she would make him something for dinner, he hasn’t eaten all day. He rolls his shoulders back, tries to collect himself as he continues walking, mindlessly. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he tells himself, rubbing his cheek with his hand. His skin stings under his palm, red and likely going to bruise from where his mother's knuckle caught his cheekbone. “You’ve been through worse, you survived so much worse.” His voice wavers, shaking with the effort he’s using to hold himself together. He isn’t sure why he’s holding himself up so desperately. No one else is around to see him break. So in the darkness he leans against a tree, and he breaks. 

  
  


It's late into the night when Thomas finally returns home. Perhaps he had passed out under the tree at some point, as the back of his calves and thighs are damp with sitting on wet grass. He winces as he changes into a soft pyjama top, kicks off his jeans and tosses them into a washing pile before trudging to the mirror on the other side of his room. He ignores the small photos lining the frame and instead focuses on getting his contacts out and back into their case.

With the action complete, and his vision slightly blurred, he flops down onto bed. The thought of actually putting pyjama pants on briefly drives through his mind, passing by, but he's quick to cast it aside, sleep is beckoning him after all, and who is he to resist?

Thomas crawls his way under the covers with a contented sigh, stretches his arms up, out and then down before he turns onto his side and pulls the covers up his chest. He drifts off, trying not to think about facing his mother in the morning.

Luckily for him, the next morning Jane isn't there. She's gone on a run into town to go shopping, so only god can know how long she'll truly take.

Thomas finds some form of comfort in this, a sort of weight lifted up and off his shoulders. He doesn’t have to face her just yet. He can practise his apology over and over before he sees her, make a million different scenarios in his head until his mind focuses in on one as the most likely, obsessing over it until the panic in his chests swells and forces him to lock himself in his room to avoid the situation altogether. 

He rolls over in bed with a low, guttal groan. The remnants of sleep remain in his eyes until he rubs them out, shooing the desperation to crawl back into a cocoon of covers out his mind as he forces himself to sit up, pushing on a shaky arm. Thomas glances over at his curtains, wide open like he left them and letting in bold streaks of morning sun. He groans, picks up his pillow and forces it over his face, closing his eyes. His hair is a frizzy mess as he takes a good five minutes convincing himself out of bed. There’s a shooting pain in his left leg, up his thigh and down to his knee, where it stops. Then it starts, down to where his ankles should be, but he knows the pain can’t be there. Damn, phantom pain again? It’s been a long long while since he had those, then again, he usually removes _it_ before sleeping.

Thomas stretches his arms up above his head, listens to the audible _pop_ of his spine as he does. He feels like shit, inhuman in a way. Perhaps the world around him is a simulation, or he's not even real. Is life real? God, what is with him this morning? Maybe it's the fact that he didn't take his meditation the day previous, or maybe it's the argument from last night ringing in his mind. Maybe it's being back home, flooded with memories, or maybe it's the stress of dealing with Hamilton and his kids and a million different things-

Perhaps it's all of them, but he starts by correcting the only one he knows how. Which is taking his medication. Thomas has to wrack his brain in order to remember where he actually left it, but a few minutes of thinking has him trudging down the hall, down the stairs, clothed only in socks, boxers and a fluffy dressing gown. Not to forget his glasses, as he can barely find the motivation to put in contacts. 

Thomas doesn't think about anyone else being awake because _hell_ he hasn't even checked the _time._ But he can only assume it's pretty early. 

He goes to the downstairs bathroom, just down the hall at the dead end from the kitchen, locks the door behind him and roots through the medicine cabinet. Thomas catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grimaces at the sight. True to his thoughts, there's a dark blue bruise across his left cheekbone, right under where the rim of his glasses sit. There are even darker bags under his eyes, and his usually immaculately kept hair is unbearably frizzy. To put it shortly, he looks an utter mess. A shell.

He snorts at his own appearance, shaking his head as if he's not even seeing himself. He can’t be. This isn't _him._ Jefferson is cool, he's collected in his looks. He's hot-headed when he needs to be, a flaming temper when he wants to. He's ice cold in every other moment and _Jefferson_ certainly doesn't spend his mornings sulking at himself in the mirror in boxers and a bathrobe.

But _Thomas_ on the other hand. _Thomas_ is a sad man. A _lonely_ man. A boy who needs a hug, a hand, a pat on the back. A boy who needs warmth and welcoming arms. _Thomas_ is quiet. _Jefferson_ is not. _Thomas_ has spent his whole life thinking he must be more like _Jefferson_ , the man everyone notices and stares at before they even realise they're staring. But masks fade, everyone needs air. And _Thomas_ well, he hasn't come up for a breath in a while.

Thomas shakes it off, rolls his shoulders back as he pops the lid of his first bottle. He shakes one, two pills out and sighs at them. This is always the worst part. Standing alone, in the bathroom and staring at the only things keeping him alive. It feels like admitting defeat, like giving up, giving _in_ . _Jefferson_ hates giving in, but _Thomas_ knows he needs to. He rolls a pill between his fingers, sighs, hangs his head and pops one, two into his mouth, swallowing dry. He never could take them with water, something about the extra help when he was already accepting assistance made him feel worse than he did without the pills. 

_Thomas_ takes one last look in the mirror, fixing his hair, adjusting his glasses and splashing some cold water on his face. He dries off with a towel, and gives up in trying to appear more like _Jefferson._

“This is getting ridiculous,” he mutters to himself. Thomas straightens the fluffy front of his bathrobe, pulling it just that little bit tighter around his frame, tying it at the front. His sigh is heaving, leaves his chest stuttering as he misses a few breaths. Jesus fucking Christ is there a pill stuck in the back of his throat or something? He coughs into his fist, trying to dislodge _whatever it is_ that decided to take root in his throat, only for him to discover it isn’t anything physical, but a ball of anxiety, lodged in his air pipe. 

His foot squeaks against the floors as he drags them along the ground, trudging. “Coffee, then cereal and a shower,” Thomas makes the list aloud, counting his next movements on the fingers on his right hand. He enjoys the planning, knowing all the things he was about to do was reassuring. Comforting in a way. “Right.” 

Thomas grabs a white mug with a photo from years ago of his younger siblings printed on it. He doesn’t think much of the design, more concerned with getting his caffeine intake and waking himself up a little more. He’s so single-mindedly focused on getting a coffee, he doesn’t see, hear or notice someone else walking into the kitchen until a voice sounds. _“Holy shit-“_ and a plate smashes. 

It makes him look over, it’s Alexander. And then he looks down at himself. By wearing literally only a bathrobe and boxers, everything from his knees downwards is visible. 

_Oh god, everything from his knees downwards is visible._

"You dropped a plate," he doesn't address the elephant in the room, instead gestures at the smashed plate on the floor. He can already see in the back of his mind his mother storming in, can feel the weight of her palm on the back of her head, can hear the scolding yells in his ears until he fades back into reality.

Alexander's hands shake a little, eyes clearly focused on Thomas's left leg. The metal that glints in the sunlight and the reflection of white bowls on a slot in the island sitting in the middle of the kitchen. 

"Your leg." Alexander's words are so blunt, straightforward and to the point, little room left for eloquence. 

"My leg?" Thomas glances down. Sure enough, Alexander is pointing with his ring finger on his right hand, to Thomas' left leg. More so lack there of. He's pointing at the prosthetic in its place. "What about it?"

"I just-" Alexander clears his throat. "I just didn't know is all. I was surprised." He goes to take a step toward, but the reality of a broken plate on the floor in front of him makes him stop. 

There's a beat of silence. "Okay-?"

"And I should clean up this plate," Alexander interjects, as soon as Thomas has finished his sentence he's speaking. He rubs a hand over his face, "do you have a dustpan around here or anything?" 

Thomas raises an eyebrow and opens a cupboard by his knees under the sink. He grabs the dustpan and brush, ready to clean it. "Yeah, I can get it though-"

"No!" Alexander insists, but Thomas isn't sure why- until the puzzle pieces fall into place in his mind. "I'll do it really, don't worry about it."

"Hamilton." Thomas grinds his teeth together, "I can get it. I don't need your pity or help because you suddenly know I'm disabled. Seriously." He watches Alexander drop his hands down, face of nervousness falling into embarrassment instead.

"Right." He chews on his bottom lip. "Can I at least make breakfast?"

That's how Thomas finds himself, early hours of the morning, eating cereal at the table in his kitchen, across from his rival. Alexander has milk trapped in the little hairs across his chin, scooping heaped spoonfuls of Cheerios into his mouth. Alexander had started by questioning where they kept the bacon - and if there was enough for the both of them, before Thomas reminded him he was vegetarian. Then he had asked about quorn, and Thomas told him there was no quorn. So Alexander had given up and instead poured them cereal. 

_"Wow, Hamilton, such a big help, I could never have poured my own cereal without you."_

_"Shut up."_

"Hey, Jefferson?" Alexander pipes up, swallowing his mouthful as he speaks. His voice makes Thomas look up at him over his bowl, one eyebrow raised. He gestures for Alexander to continue speaking. "Can I ask you a question?" 

_When have my words ever stopped you? No matter my answer, you'll ask anyway…_ Thomas wants to respond, but he has a mouthful of cereal, so instead he merely nods and waits for Hamilton to continue.

"Well- a few questions actually," Alexander clears his throat. "Why did you never mention the prosthetic before?"

"Never came up in conversation." Thomas answers as soon as he swallows, voice a low mutter as he drags his spoon through the milk. This is one of the reasons he feels he could never be vegan, he does love his dairy.

"Oh, I guess that's fair," Alexander chuckles, deep and lodged in his throat. An awkward laugh, practically oozing pity. Thomas can sense the hundreds of different questions dancing on the tip of Hamilton's tongue, but he doesn't say any of them. Instead, he vaguely gestures to Thomas' cheekbone. "What about that nasty bruise? How'd you get that?"

"I fell." 

It's a lie, of course it's a lie. And by the look on Hamilton's face, he knows it's a lie too. The fact that his eyes narrow, lips tighten into a thin line as he studies every part of Thomas for a sign of deception. And Thomas has his telltale signs, mostly that his lip twitches and the tips of his ears go a dusty pink when he lies. Alexander seems to have noticed, but he nods his head.

"It's just such a strange place to get a bruise." He hums, trying to coax Thomas out, practically rubbing his fingers together and ' _pspspsps_ 'ing like he's attempting to call a cat.

"Well, I'm a strange man, amn't I?" Thomas gives a little chuckle, and Alexander takes that as permission to laugh too, lines creasing by his eyes as he does. He hangs his head and laughs into his cereal, before he peers back up at Thomas.

Alexander nods, "possibly the strangest I've ever met."

  
  


Somehow, Thomas isn't sure how, but Alexander convinces him to let the man trail after him as he goes around. His mother shows up at the house at around eleven, but Thomas is too engrossed in a heated conversation to care. But it's nice, a little breath of fresh air. It doesn't escape his mind, the possibility that Alexander is spending time with him out of pity, out of feeling Thomas needs _help_.

Which he doesn't. He doesn't need any help, he's _fine._ After all, he's managed _this far_ , he doesn't need help, especially from Alexander. 

But the whole day was a blur, a green and blue and yellow blur. Alexander has insisted on seeing every square inch of land, to which Thomas had happily obliged. After all, the other seemed… genuinely interested in what he had to say? He banned politics as a topic all together, tired of hearing things he didn't agree with - sick of being insulted for his own words. Not now.

Thomas never could've imagined laughing at a joke Alexander makes, then again - he never could've imagined _Alexander telling a joke._ And yet, Thomas finds himself often surprised. He surprises himself when Hamilton laughs, and he smiles when they sit in the hay bales together. Perhaps today is a good day.

  
  


Today is _not_ a good day. 

Patsy knows that much already. It's only twelve o'clock in the afternoon but things have flipped on their head. She knows this, because she’s cramped up in the tightest, darkest corner of the attic, clutching a holey blanket. The holes are from moths having a field day in her closet back home, and there’s a thin sheen of dust in certain spots, but she still buries her nose into the material. There’s so much on her mind, too many things to really count. But under her she can hear her grandmother trudging around with shopping bags. Patsy puts her hands over her ears, draws her knees up to her chest and lets the blanket press against her face. She pays special attention to the frayed edges, to the small embroidered _Martha_ in swoopy lettering, specially made just for her when she was born.

Mary screams downstairs. Patsy hears a cry, and then the screaming stops. She can hear the tell-tale sound of children leaving the house - Polly and Philip fleeing perhaps? But from who..?

_Today is not a good day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah im not sorry the kids will be suffering lmao
> 
> leave comments and kudos! i dont write for you to ignore those buttons.

**Author's Note:**

> leave kudos and comments, I don’t spent so much time writing for y’all to ignore those buttons.
> 
> come yell at me on [tumblr](https://jefferoni-quotes.tumblr.com)


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